


The Speed of Falling

by inthebackoftheimpala (Wishme)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, M/M, Professor!Cas, and nerds, mechanic!Dean, some angst mostly fluff, there's food too, they are both such nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 50,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/inthebackoftheimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Castiel Novak has trained his entire life to earn his current academic position as the youngest professor in a century to earn tenure, so he’s not sure why the victory feels so hollow. Dean Winchester owns an autoshop with his dad’s best friend, has a giant for a brother, and might have a secret that could change the world. When they meet over a ticking car, neither of them expect a lesson on ambition, desire, and honesty, upending their usual method of sacrificing everything as a means to an end.</p><p>What happens when an academic losing his purpose and a mechanic that is more than he seems start to fall in love?</p><p>Anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a finished work and will be updating MWF until all parts are posted. Thanks for reading along!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at inthebackoftheimpala

Dean pulls the headphones out of his ears as he walks back into the garage, seeing Ash wave their next customer into the bay. It's a sweet Dart 170 hardtop, cherry red and nearly perfect but for the distinct dissonance coming from under the hood. Lucky for this guy, Dean's the best at what he does and he does it even better when it's this obvious the customer loves his vehicle. Cheeky grin plastered on his face, he heads towards the bay only to slam to a halt when a head clears the doorframe. The messiest shock of black hair leads to sharp blue eyes and even sharper cheekbones. Breathing is unnecessary for a few beats until Dean realizes Ash is waving at him to get his attention and he slaps another smile on his face. Hoo boy.

"And this is the boss-man." Ash says as Dean steps up to his left, extending his hand to the new man. "Dean Winchester. What can I do for you?"

Blue-eyes nods and grips his hand tight, "Castiel Novak.  My car seems to be ticking."

Dean's smile edges towards reckless, "Ticking, eh? Let me see what we can do for you."

Five minute of preliminary questions about usage (daily), care (extensive).  Dean totally didn't salivate when Castiel mentioned that he changes his own oil and does routine maintenance on a weekly basis), driving habits, when the sound started, his phone number (Dean fucking _wishes_ ), and he lets Castiel into their waiting room. "We've got coffee in the corner. Looks like there’s a few donuts left too. The jelly is killer if there are any left. Bathroom is to your left. Becky can help if you need anything."

"Do you have any tea?" Castiel asks.

"Ah, good question. Becky?" Dean glances over to the office manager who is staring at the two of them, grinning maniacally.

"That we do," she chirps.  "Lipton or Twining's Earl Grey."

"Ah, I'll take the Earl Gray, thank you." Castiel says and nods his thanks when she passes over the sachet. Dean excuses himself and heads back to the car, shaking his head clear. _Focus, Winchester_.

#

 

Twenty minutes and a string of colorful language later, Dean tromps back into the waiting room. Castiel glances up from the book he's reading, a pen resting between his lips and Dean could swear the temperature rocketed ten degrees. He licks his lips and says in what he hopes is a casual manner,  "Bad news, man. Nothing is showing up in my basic checks. This is going to take a while. Could you come back at the end of the day?"

Castiel sighs and says, "Of course it couldn't be easy. That would be simple. Is a bit after seven, alright? I'm afraid I'm busy until right before then."

Shop hours end at six, but Dean finds himself saying to his own surprise, and clearly to Becky's, "Yeah, sure. We'll call if it's ready earlier."  He leaves Castiel to call for a ride and refuses to meet Becky's wide, curious eyes. He's going to get so much shit for this.

"So, I hear you're sticking around late for Hot Guy in Bay three," Ash says not even an hour later, leaning on the door to the break room. To be fair, it's a full thirty minutes later than Dean had expected. Becky must have gotten a call or something.

"Yeah, I need to catch up on paperwork anyhow. 's not a big deal." Dean prays Ash takes it at face value, but luck is not on his side today.

"Sure, boss. Sure. Paperwork. Not for another long look at Professor Sex Hair."

Dean chokes on his Coke, "Jesus, Ash."

"Knew it," Ash winks before sauntering out the door leaving Dean to stare at his soda wondering when his life got weird.

#

 

It's not like Dean hides the fact that he's into guys. Anyone who knows him at all knows he's an equal opportunity player--that the majority of his past conquests were female is just chance. He's had what you could call a prolific history of partners, though for the past few years it's been pretty quiet. It's just been a while since he's been this blindsided, and at work too. And the fact that the Dart is pretty much pristine other than the as-yet- to-be-determined issue just makes the guy even more attractive. But he's on the clock and he needs to be thinking more about the timing belt than bright blue eyes and a fitted waistcoat.

The issue turns out to be easily solved with parts he actually has in shop, once he actually figures out what's wrong.  He's done by four and steals the office phone from Becky to punch in the number left on the form. Three rings later and the charcoal voice reaches out over the line, "You've reached the office of Professor Castiel Novak in the Department of French. Please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. _Merci_."  There's an extended moment of silence marred only by soft muttering that sounds something like "What do you mean the beep, there is no beep" before there is, in fact, a loud beep.

"Hey, Castiel, Dean Winchester here at Winchester Automotive. Your Dart is ready when you are. Give us a call if you have any questions."

He hangs up the phone and if he's slightly disappointed that it's an office number and not a personal number, he certainly doesn't pay that any attention. A guy like that _would_ be a professor. Surprising that it's language and not engineering, with how well he seems to know his way around the workings of his car, but everyone has to have a hobby, Dean guesses. He spares one last fleeting thought for the man before the bell above the door chimes, announcing a new customer, and it's back to the grind.

The rest of the day is long and exhausting. Some basic tune-ups, but also a beast of a locked engine on a Jetta some idiot teenager brought in, hoping to hide from her parents. The phone call with them was terrifyingly short leaving Dean almost empathetic with the kid, except that he had little sympathy for someone who ruined a machine so completely. True to his word, Castiel shows up a little after seven. He's dropped off in a beat-up gray Civic and rolls his eyes at Dean's smirk. "That was my brother. He only cares about his car when it doesn't work or it's not where he swears he left it."

Dean's proud of himself for not saying anything else and guides Castiel to the back where his car is parked, clean and polished. He'd had one of the junior mechanics do a basic detailing job before he left for the day, under the pretense of "training" and the guy had done an alright job--almost worth the ribbing Dean had gotten from Ash when he'd found out. Handing over the keys, Dean says, "Start her up and let me know what you think."

The other man slides into the driver's seat in a fluid motion, turns the key and the Dart purrs. He breaks into a full smile, satisfied. "She sounds great, Dean. Thank you."

"No problem." Dean answers. "I've got the paperwork in the office"

This part is routine, even if the darkened office isn't. He runs Castiel's card and marks down the info in the system. And then there's nothing left to do, but lock up after them and send Castiel on his way. "Thank you, Dean." Castiel says when he shakes Dean's hand, "I really appreciate you doing such great work and for staying late. You really didn't have to."

Dean shrugs and says, "Not a problem, man. Glad it worked out alright and that I was able to help out. She's a beauty."

"Thank you for saying so," Castiel is still holding his hand and it would maybe be weird but Dean's kind of really okay with it.  The professor looks down at their hands and back up at Dean, his eyes wary, "Ah, I don't normally do this, but would you like to get a drink with me this week? Maybe Thursday?"

Surprised, Dean stills, his hand softening in the other mans and he sees Castiel's face begin to fall. He grips the man's hand tight again. Oh fuck _yes._ Dean could kiss the man. Instead he smiles and says, "I'd love to." The grin that breaks out across Castiel's face, all gums and crinkled nose, is better than a stolen kiss.

"Oh, well, excellent," he stutters out, "I'll just give you a call then?"

"Sounds good. Oh, wait, here." Dean pulls one of his cards from his back pocket and scrawls his cell number across the back. "Looking forward to it."

Castiel smiles at him again, a smaller, softer smile.  "Me too."

Dean watches as the tail lights of the Dart wink around the corner before he punches the air and shouts "Hell, _yes_!"

He grins while waiting for the register to batch and he finishes up the filing, keys jingling with the spring in his step when he walks out the door.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's insufferable for the rest of the week. He knows this because Ash tells him. And so does Sam. And Jo. Ellen pats his hand and tells him to stop being fifteen and to wash his damn dishes, but it's Wednesday and Cas still hasn't called. He's disappointed and pissed about being disappointed, but the alternative is to pine or call him and fuck that, Cas asked him out, he gets to call. And he's not sure when he started calling the guy Cas in his head, but it's familiar and warm and he likes it.  So, when his phone starts ringing just after seven his heart definitely doesn't jump sideways and he definitely doesn't fumble with his phone.

As he hits "answer" he clears his throat, "Dean Winchester."

"Hello, Dean."

His throat goes dry and he's grateful the gravel voice continues, "This is Castiel. We met last week?"

"Ah, yeah. Hi. How's it going?" Dean rolls his eyes at himself. _How's it going? Really dude, could you sound like you're trying too hard to be casual?_ _Jesus._

The other man doesn't seem to notice, just forges ahead, "I was wondering if you were still free tomorrow night? I know it's rather late in the week to confirm, but it's the first week of classes and my upper class seminars are far more...effort than I'd anticipated."

He sounds genuinely exhausted and the past few days of waiting are immediately forgotten. Dean smiles into the phone, "Yeah, tomorrow is good. You thinking of anywhere in particular?"

"I'm afraid most of the places I know are close to campus and aren't of much interest. Do you have a place you'd like to go?"

Boy, does he. "Sure thing. The Roadhouse, just west of Missouri on Franklin?"

"Great. Good. I'll see you there tomorrow then? Does eight work?" Dean must imagine that the voice across the line is hesitant, as if he expects Dean to call it off completely.

"It's great. Awesome. I'll see you then."

"I look forward to it. Good night Dean."

"Yeah, bye"

Smooth is so far off the table it's roosting in the coop next door, but what the fuck ever. Dean's got a date with the cute professor.

#

 

 

It's early enough that the parking lot behind the Roadhouse is mostly empty and Dean can tell he's the first to arrive--no brilliant red to be seen. He eases his baby into his usual spot and scoots through the back door of the kitchen. Ellen is at her usual mid-service spot, perched on a stool where she can see both the floor and the kitchen. She's shaking her head at one of the bus boys and Dean sneaks up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. She stiffens and then reaches up with one hand to tap his cheek, "You'd better have a good reason for interrupting my flow, boy." She spins around and her grin is wide and genuine, letting Dean pull her into a hug. She swats his arm as they disengage, "Outta my kitchen, Winchester. Take your pretty face where it'll do me some good. Jo's out at the bar, might even let you help tonight."

"No can do, Ellen. I got a date." He winks and her look softens into something fond before fixing him with steely eyes.

"No shenanigans, you hear me?"

Dean clasps his hands to his chest in mock horror, "What, me?  I'm a frickin' bastion of good manners."

She snorts and waves him out of the kitchen, "You let me know when your date arrives. We'll send you something nice."

He swoops down to drop a kiss on her cheek and she swats his arm again before pushing him towards the door, "You save that charm, Winchester. You're gonna need it."

 

 

If pressed to paint a picture of home, Dean would tell you about the inside of the Roadhouse about half the time. The rest would be Bobby's, but these two places raised him, along with the motley crew he calls family. He's spent enough time washing the floors of this place, or fixing windows or patching holes he may or may not have made, to know every grain of wood on that old bar, every trick light switch, every bump on the pool table. He's spent more time mopping these floors and counting bottles than he has under the hoods of vehicles, in punishment as well as in the spirit of just helping out. This place has seen him at his worst and it's been the stage for many of his past hookups, though those are mostly memories now, having mellowed out as he edged toward and over thirty. It's a gamble, bringing Castiel here, but if he doesn't love the Roadhouse, or at least appreciate it, there's no real future to this. That Dean just thought about something beyond the current evening should terrify him, he knows logically, but instead he's apprehensive in the best way. He's banking on this going well. God, he hopes it goes well.

 

He's leaned over the bar, teasing Jo when Castiel walks in. Dean catches his eye and waves him over to the bar. Jo whistles appreciatively, low enough that only Dean can hear and she laughs when he colors, flicking him with her towel before heading over to serve another patron. In a pair of slacks and a button down, Castiel looks only slightly out of place and every inch the professor. Dean wants to run his fingers through his mussed up hair, but instead gestures to the booth set aside for them. He lets Castiel go first because he's a gentleman. Certainly not because he wants to get another look at the other man's fine ass. Nope.

 

Their server comes up right as they slide in, leaving waters and menus before flitting off to the table across the way. When she circles back around, they order burgers and drinks--beer for both. When Lisette leaves Dean turns back to Cas, thrilled by the steady attention of his gaze.

 

"So, Professor?"

Cas nods, "Guilty." At Dean's look he continues, "French. Composition mostly, though I'm teaching a translation seminar this semester. It's a challenge--I've got not only my own students, but from other language departments. Keeps it from being boring, though, I must say."

"How does that even work? How do you teach how to translate a language you don't know?"

"Well, the theory of translation is the same across all languages. It's learning how to hear the meanings in the text, not just transliteration. How you translate not only the vehicles, words, but also the emotions and ideas, the underpinning sociocultural issues that infiltrate the text. It's all about nuance, keeping the style of the original writer while making it accessible across a language barrier."

He reddens slightly and ducks his head, "Sorry. Once I get started it's hard to stop. "

"Nah, it's interesting. Doesn't sound much different from being a mechanic."

Castiel raises his eyebrow and Dean grins, "It's like translation or being a vet. The anatomy is pretty basic, you just have to learn to hear what it's trying to tell you. You have your set of tools but those only help so far-- you have to have the ear. Sure, you can theoretically know what is wrong but each machine settles differently, finds its own nuance its own cadence you know? From where the clutch will engage to how tight to tune the belts."

"I never thought of it that way. I suppose you're right." Cas smiles as Dean’s ears pinken with a blush.

 

Lisette returns with their beers and the conversation turns to more normal things. Dean has a brother, Sam, who's a junior associate at a law firm in town and of whom Dean is clearly very proud. Castiel has a brother in town, Gabe, who is coincidentally also a lawyer, but he's a PD.

 

They're both a little old school with music, Castiel with his Jacques Brel and Rolling Stones, Dean with his classic rock. They agree that Bowie is god and Castiel admits to a deep love for of Montreal ("the arrangements are based in classical music theory! It's fascinating!") Dean laughs and promises to give it a try, as long as Castiel listens to some Neutral Milk Hotel. He thinks that he might make Castiel a mixed tape sometime, the thought of his music spilling out of Castiel's speakers sending an unexpected thrill down his spine.

 

Their burgers come and Dean forgets to taste his first bite, distracted by the blissed out man in front of him. Castiel's eyes are closed, his lips shiny with grease and there's this tiny spot of ketchup on the crease that Dean can't stop staring at. He finishes chewing and looks up at Dean, slightly awed. "This makes me very happy." His tongue darts out to swipe away the ketchup and Dean is half hard in his jeans. This is insane. Dean takes another bite of his burger, this time focusing on the sink of the bread, the crunch of the lettuce and when he looks up Castiel's eyes are half glazed. Smugly, Dean runs a finger absently along his lower lip, licking mustard off the tip. It's only fair really and it's so worth it to watch the other man's pupils dilate.

 

Castiel couldn't tell how long they sat staring at each other, burgers halfway to their mouths, before Lisette returned to ask how everything was and bring them new beers. Jarred back to the present the men thank her and eat in relative silence, murmuring satisfaction and fighting for the last few French fries.

 

They nurse their beers over the sound of the growing crowd until Castiel looks down at his watch and grimaces. "Unfortunately, I've got an early lecture in the morning. I'm afraid I have to leave shortly."

 

It's not quite nine, but Dean will take that for a first date. "Right. Yeah, I open tomorrow morning--I should kick off as well."

Dean waves at Lisette and she sends Jo over to deal with their bill, "Saturday. Swing shift," she says, tapping the table with the side of a menu.

Dean groans, "Why won't that woman just take my cash? Fine. Fine, you tell her Saturday half a swing shift and I'll fix that death trap she still drives." Jo grins, leaning over to give him a big smack on the cheek, "She'll take it. Have fun, boys!" She winks at Castiel as she saunters off, yelling at one of the regulars to get his damn feet off the bar.

 

"What was that?" Castiel asks.

"That was Jo. Her mom, Ellen, owns the place. We've been running around this place since we were yea high. Nothing she wanted to get into as much as whatever me and Sammy were doing. I'd kill her if Ellen wouldn't kill me right back." The fond smile on Dean’s face softens his features and Castiel can't help but smile back,

"Family," Cas says simply.

Startled, Dean looks at him and shrugs with one shoulder. "Yeah. "

 

Castiel just hums, and they push themselves through the doors into the fading dusk. Wordlessly they walk to Castiel's car, shoulders brushing every so often. They steal glances and never catch each other until they're both staring at the key in Castiel's hand. This is the part Dean is never good at, his heart is beating too quickly and he really hopes the night went as well as he thinks it did. "I had a really good time tonight," He says, voice hoarse. Castiel smiles with his eyes. "I did too. Thank you for bringing me here. It's a wonderful place," he says like he knows Dean's never brought anyone here before and certainly not on a first date. It strikes Dean that he essentially brought Castiel home to meet the family on their first date and, seriously, what the hell is that about, Winchester? But it worked, so he won't torture himself too much over it. At least for the moment.

Hope blossoms and he raises his eyes to meet Castiel's and they just stand there, staring. Dean breaks first. "Good night Cas."

One eyebrow arches. "Cas?"

A blush rises along his collar. "Uh, yeah it's just, you know, short."

"I like it," Castiel interrupts, his grin a bit wider like it’s making room for the new name, mapping the patterns of Dean's consonants. "Thank you."

And suddenly there's a brush of lips against Dean's cheek and those blue eyes are so close and there are not stars reflected in them, dammit. And then Castiel is sliding into the front seat of the Dart like the ground hadn't just moved. Right before shutting the door he says, "Let's do this again soon."

 

Dean, speechless, watches the taillights ease out the driveway and around the corner.

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Dean pulls away from the last of the paperwork and makes his way back to the bay of the garage they’ve dubbed their workshop, Ash is crooning mournfully along with the shitty Aerosmith song from that space movie.  He groans, reaching over to change the radio as we walks by, but Ash swats his hand away. "You know the rules. Got here first, that means I get first hour dibs."

 

He grins at Dean's silence because he knows he's right. Back when they first started, Dean and Jo would argue non-stop about the music choice. Dean's choices, of course, because it's his radio and his rules. Jo had sniped that this wasn't his car, he wasn't their boss here, and that there is more music in the world than was created between 1973 and 1989 and that _some people_ like that. "She has a point," Ash had said from behind his screen, and that was that. At first it had been that whoever was the first to their workshop the got to pick the music for the night, but that had devolved into an increasingly ridiculous game of redefining what "the workshop" and "first" meant. Like, did it start after Ash's workstation or did it start at their first dedicated storage shelf or was it who powered the tools up first? Their workspace is just the back corner bay of Winchester Auto and technically it's all Dean's (and Bobby's) so theoretically he could argue he's _always_ first. So, now the first person back there gets dibs on the first hour and it rotates by hour through them by age: Ash then Dean then Jo. It's fair and Dean has to admit that it's been nice to listen to something outside his usual. Not that he'd admit to actively liking any of the EDM Ash throws on or the indie gals Jo likes to croon along to, but he can handle some dropped bass and he has to admit that Kaki King is fucking killer.

 

Tonight, though, it's Aerosmith. At least for now. Ash is the most mercurial of all of them, music wise. He's got buddies online who send him new stuff every week, so there's always something new. Daft Punk had a pretty long tenure and Dean actually really liked the weird Swedish swing hip-hop group the other week. Aerosmith he kind of loves, but not this wailing shit. Steven Tyler just lets those notes go, man.

 

Dean wishes he could just roll himself under the chassis and let the carbon fiber filter some of it out, but tonight they're talking numbers. His hands are itching to get back inside the guts of this thing--the pistons aren't quite there yet and he needs to figure out if they have to re-core them. But numbers are important. But they need Jo, and Jo is late.

 

Twenty minutes later Jo breezes in, breathless. "Sorry! Here! What did I miss?"

Ash looks up and picks his teeth. "A royal flush," he says and sets his cards down.

"Son of a bitch," Dean grumbles, tossing his full house onto the table. Ash just grins and sweeps the deck up, tipping his coke in salute.

"So, working hard, hardly working," Jo quips, flipping a chair backward to sit in. "I hear it's numbers night."

 

"You heard right, sister. Give us your mathiness." Ash shoves a dry erase marker into her hands. “All hail the Queen of Speed. Bless our Quest with Numbers!” She mock bows while still seated and then heads over the back wall. It's covered with three classroom sized white boards Bobby got when the community college down the street decided to install new smart boards.  "Don't bang up the walls too much" was all he said, leaving behind some heavy-duty anchors and screws. They'd been a bitch to install since they were the kind that rolled up and down, but they'd gotten them up and even installed two others to bracket them for the more changable notes. The center boards housed their main equations and specs--they rarely changed. In fact, Dean's pretty sure that it would take an industrial miracle to scrub off some of the ink it's been there so long.

 

Along the top of the main board, scrawled in Ash’s hand, reads “WE NEED SPEED” and about ten crossed out attempts at a name for their ragtag group. It started a few years ago when a guy in Ash's programming class had a brother at State who apparently won something called the Shell Eco-marathon and wouldn’t shut up about high efficiency vehicles. Ash brought the idea to Dean and they found that the event itself was for students to design hyper-efficient vehicles to encourage debate about the future of fuel efficiency and vehicle potential. The test vehicles weren’t pretty by any means, mostly odd looking tubes more resembling just the very front of a drag car than anything, or a Tylenol on wheels. But the records these kids were making were amazing. That first night, browsing on the website after Ash had left, Dean let himself feel the ache deep in his chest, the regret and longing he packed behind his sternum. But he’d made his choices, got Sammy into a good school and a good job. If that meant he never saw the inside of the design rooms at an automotive firm, then fine. He was fine. He has the shop and he’s keeping people safe on the roads. It had to be enough.

They’d started tinkering with small prototypes a few weeks later, using scraps from old clunkers and RC chassis. He and Ash used one of the back bays to mod them out and race them after hours until Jo came by one night and demanded to be let in. With her help, they’d started timing their races, keeping records of how different elements on the vehicles affected their times. It was Jo who suggested they move bigger, pulling cars from the scrapheap to fix up to use--an old engine here, shaved down siding there, a little bit of blood and grease. Which got them to where they are, with half a bay of failed projects and unpacked boxes of  new pieces waiting to go onto their newest experiment. Dean couldn’t say when they’d gotten serious about this, pooling their cash to order custom machined parts and working on engine blocks that weren’t corroded, but there’s no one else he’d have beside him on this project. Jo never asks why Dean stays most nights until the late hours pouring over designs and specs. Ash just leaves him an extra beer and one of those bottled coffee drinks he gets in bulk at Costco to rile Bobby up. Not to say they don’t care about their little project, they put in long hours too, but he knows they’re in it for him as much as they are for themselves.

 

"Current records," Jo prompts.

"Gasoline pro type record: 2824 mpg.  Prototype alternative fuel, ethanol, 1771.4 mpg. Prototype battery, electric 537.2 mpg. Urban concept gasoline 901.5 mpg.  Urban alternative 102.3 mpg. Urban diesel, 458.7 mpg." Ash rattles off, watching as Jo jots the numbers down.

Dean whistles through his teeth. "Who got the prototype gas?"

"Alérion Supermileage, Universite Laval."

"Figures. Where are we now?"

Rolling her eyes, Jo answers. "987 gas prototype. 137 urban electric."

"Damn."  Even though he knows they don’t have funding or a department of experts behind him, Dean wishes they were closer. He knows he’s missing a technical background and doesn’t have the resources (hell, he borrows trucks and timers from friends to get out to the desert to do their annual timed trials and that’s a strain), but the huge gap between numbers stings.

 

Ash claps Dean on his shoulder, "It's all good buddy. We haven't run a trial in over eight months and the new body is in soon and she's gonna be _sweet_." Ash kisses his fingertips like a French chef in deep appreciation of a dish.

 

"Too true, my friend." Jo caps the marker and settles back at the table. "We're not going to beat these numbers. These kids have departments with money behind them and we're three slackers who do this in our free time. We're _awesome_ when you think of it that way. Hell, none of us have even taken physics."

 

"I have," Ash raises his hand without looking up from his screen.

"Fine, one of us has actually taken physics. The rest of us are figuring it out as we go. And they don't have what we have."

"And what's that,” Dean asks.

"Style." Jo bites her lip and pops her collar, yelping when Dean shoves her off balance. "Abuse!"

 

It's true though and Dean knows it. They're three mechanics that stare at the guts of cars every day and see the damage done by careless and ignorant drivers as well as some truly dumb shit from auto manufacturers. The industry needs a kick in the ass in terms of design and efficiency. And that's what they're aiming to do.

 

"Purpose." Dean says into the lull of the conversation. Looking up at him, the other two nod, small smiles on their faces.

"They might have the theory and access to some of the best machinery, but they have no idea how to apply that theory for shit," he continues. "And who the fuck uses ethanol as an alternative fuel, anyway."

This is an old argument and the others sit back to let him roll. "I mean, it's easy to produce and most gasoline is cut with it anyway, but isn't the purpose to come up with an _alternative_ fuel? Let's go with one we have. Let's play with the hybrid technology, let's use that wasted fryer oil. Who needs farm to table when you can have diner to engine? I mean come on, man. That's fucking brilliant."

Ash punches his fist into the air, "Right on!" just as "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" blares through the audio system, and they rocket into their work.

By the time they've cycled through Dean and Jo's turns on the radio, and around again before letting the music go quiet, they're exhausted. The clock is edging on two and Dean has to open in the morning. Thankfully Jo doesn't have to come in until the afternoon shift because she can't even write straight on the whiteboard any more, the lines of her integrals bleeding into each other. Ash is face down on his keyboard, mumbling about sourcing when Dean cuts in. "Enough! We’re toast. Jo, you getting a ride home?"

 

"Hm?” Jo lifts her head groggily from where she had pressed it against the whiteboard. "Mmm, yeah. Charlie said she'd swing by."

"I'll text her now, 'kay?" Dean offers gently.

" Kay," Jo agrees and totters to her chair again.

"Ash, you coming with?"

"Mi casa es su casa, brother."

"No. No it really isn't, dude. But, copy that. I got you." Dean says while he punches a text to Charlie. _Jo is drooling on the whiteboard._

His flip phone chirps. _Extraction on the way. You need a new phone._

 

He knows he needs a new phone. Mostly because Charlie keeps telling him he needs one, says it's ridiculous that someone who likes technology so much can't seem to keep up with it. But this one works fine. He can call, he can text, and it's survived four years getting banged around in the garage with oil and who knows what else. It's not dead yet and he isn't either, so the phone stays. Not that he doesn't think Charlie's Galaxy is cool, because man some of the apps on that are seriously stellar. Ash keeps talking about wanting to develop a timing app and...that’s cool for them. But Dean's fine. His phone is fine. It'd be a hassle to learn a whole new system anyway.

 

Charlie and Jo live pretty close by, but Charlie keeps even closer on Wednesdays, holing up in the University Library because, as she says, they've got a fiber optic connection now and how could she let that sort of monster slaying power go to waste? Dean can't say he blames her. Really, though, it's because she knows she can't trust Jo to get home by herself. And if picking up Jo means she gets a peek at their new developments, that's totally not the point. 

 

Fluorescent lights buzz as they sit in silence, heads listing to the side. The empty garage holds its own kind of silence, deep and cavernous. This corner is bright, but the shadows edge in with their gray fingers, purpling as they set back deeper into the garage. When he was a kid, Dean would tell Sammy there were monsters that skulked in the edges of the light, waited outside windows, spun dreams unending. Armed with flashlights and light socket wrenches, they'd tiptoe through the shop when their dad worked late in the office with Bobby, arguing over paperwork likely, reading tracks in oil stains and screams into the settling of the shuttered garage doors. They'd captured wendigos with drop cloths, knocked out Baba Yaga in her tiny tin chicken house hiding in the supply closets, evaded fairies determined to steal their breath by chowing down hot Cheetos and cokes. And he'd kept Sam safe, like he'd been told to. They looked out for each other. And even now with Sam on the other side of town, holed up in his office at the law firm, they still gravitated towards this old place. Sam shows up on these late nights sometimes, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, usually bearing pizza to an adoring audience before slipping to the side to let them work. Sam keeps away from the inside of the machines, touches only where he's told he can, and he mostly sticks to the edges. Sometimes he watches and heads out soon after, other times he swaps stories with them late into the night. He stops by less often now that he's officially working at the law firm, but he seems to know he's always welcome, always has a place with them.

 

A table scrapes as Charlie runds into the edge of it and they all jump. "Sorry," Charlie says, throwing her hands up. "Stealth mode deactivated."

 

She crosses the bay and brushes a kiss to Dean's temple before reaching over and high-fiving Ash. Standing behind Jo who is still leaning against the whiteboards, she circles her arms around the tired woman and presses the sides of their faces together, "Ready to go?"

 

Too tired to even respond, Jo just slumps over onto the other woman. Charlie staggers slightly before looping her arm around Jo's waist and steering her to the door. She calls out her goodbyes over her shoulder, before they're swallowed by the night.

 

"One down, us to go." Dean stretches his arms up and arches to crack his back. "Let's do this."

Ash doesn't stir from where he's let his head rest on his keyboard and Dean smacks the back of the laptop, sending the man upright in indignant horror, "My dream machine!"

Dean snorts, "Must be with you sleeping on it. Get your ass up."

 

They stagger to the car and Dean's thankful for the umpteenth time that his apartment is only a few minutes away. The lines on the road waver slightly, but he pulls up to the red light to let a cop pass by without any difficulty. As they pull forward into the intersection Ash says, "We're doing good shit, man."

"Hm?"

"The team. We've got some good shit happening. No one else on the boards is doing anything like the way we're doing it, just focusing on pre-built and modifications. We're, like, thinking from the purpose out. Reconceptualizing the relationship of the car and the road, saving the earth. All that good shit."

Dean chuckles. "You’re punchy as hell, dude."

"Nah, 'm serious, " Ash slurs into the seatbelt. "It's your fault too. If it were my team, we'd be fleecing gamer kids for their petty cash and Xbox passwords. You, compadre, have vision."  He pauses for a moment, considering, "And me. You can't do this without me. And you know why?"

"Why?"

'Because I," Ash gesticulates in the general direction of his side of the car, "am Dr. Badass. And I Get. Shit. Done."

They roll up in front of Ash's duplex and he pauses with one hand on the door before getting out, "No bullshit, man. You're changing shit up. I just hope we can show it to people someday."

 

Dean waits until Ash falls through his door, shutting it behind him before pulling away from the curb. Ash is an asshole sometimes, but he almost seemed sincere with that shit. Dean's not sure about changing the world, but cars he knows. And contrary to what one might think considering his Baby is a boat, he's fascinated by fuel efficiency. Though he is by no means one of those "peak oil" freaks, he knows fuel is a finite resource --one he's done his fair share of chugging through. But things are changing and science backs it up. It's not about the Earth, not really, but more about the machines. The systems out there now? They're based on century old combustion technology--they're still working off the same shit that Henry Ford played with in 1901. It's fucking 2015. Hovercars might not be possible, but more efficient and powerful vehicles, whatever shape they take, fucking should be. The hybrid explosion is awesome--got people thinking about the way their cars worked and gave them an option for keeping their impact down in a real way. Dean might not like the way it feels to drive one of those pods--he misses the growl of the engine, the active participation of the driver--but it's a great alternative for people who don't know shit about cars except how to ignore a turn signal and how to pump gas. There's got to be a way to keep that feeling of driving a powerful machine while still saving the earth or whatever. There's got to be.

 

No one else is on the street as Dean turns down the way to his place. He'd left the front curtains open again. Turning into the driveway, he flips his lights off--they shine into the neighbor's bedroom otherwise and he's not a complete dick--pulling his Baby into park. The front door sticks like it always does and Dean nearly drops his keys, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He throws the deadbolt behind him and drops his keys into the bowl Jess made him for his birthday this last year. It sits on the bench he'd picked up at the flea market and refinished when he'd first moved in. His jacket goes on the rack, shoes under the bench, and he goes to his bedroom, pulling off his shirt as he walks down the hall. He fumbles with his belt before dragging his jeans off, kicking them to the other side of the room. He chases after them to grab his phone, throwing himself back on the bed afterward. The phone beeps-- Dean plugs it in because his alarm is going off in four hours and the last thing he needs is Bobby dumping cold water over his head like he did that one time in high school. He's asleep as his phone hits his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the fun begins. The Shell Eco-Marathon is a real thing with 3 events worldwide. Let's not talk about the research hole I went into for this thing.


	4. Chapter 4

Most of the books lining the built-in shelves belong to the previous occupant of the office--a recently deceased scholar of Proust, as cliché as that is. A mixture of criticism long out of vogue, some bent copies of Derrida, and one authored by the previous tenant, they're a wash of mottled dun and magenta against the walls. The books Castiel brought with him neatly fill two full shelves--the ones nearest the bottom--and aren't in any particular order. Few have spines that are legible, so used to being spread open between careful hands or against hard desks, but Castiel knows each one by sight. He's familiar with the way the pages slip through his fingers, each one alive with its worn personality or story, as much a willing participant in the process of reading as he or the author. He lets the books that aren't his stay. They have as much a right to this space as he does, if not more. They've been here longer than he has.

 

Castiel leans back in his chair, the only piece of new furniture in the office. He kept the heavy oak desk with sticking drawers, spending part of a weekend taking them out and gently slicking the runners with soap, leaving the office smelling like lemongrass. The shelves were built along with the walls, when modernism plagued the university space. They look like calcified spines jutting out from the wall, but they do the job. He doesn't want to know how old the carpet is, though he knows when it was last cleaned (at the beginning of last fall semester) and the radiator is certainly older than god. But he likes it. It's certainly an improvement from the carrel he had as a grad student, deep in the bowels of the library. And it's a step up from the office he shared with Hael as assistant professors. He'd resigned himself to fighting for storage and filing space for at least another handful of years until the board had informed him a little over a year ago that he was up for tenure. That the announcement was timed around when Professor Visnyak officially became Emeritus in time for her to enter hospice didn't escape Castiel, nor did it seem particularly tasteful, but it wasn't something he could turn down. It was what Castiel had worked towards since he was twelve--the achievement none of his other brothers had managed to obtain and that his family so prized. So he accepted.

 

That his second book was only in the contracted stage didn't seem to bother the committee, neither did his age. So, at thirty-three, Castiel Novak became the youngest Associate Professor in the French Department. He's well aware that his appointment had more to do with internal politics and his controversial first book than any true merit gained from his time in the department, but it's his. Clasping his hands together, he taps his tips with the joined pointer fingers. He'd been curt at the department meeting today, annoyed by the backhanded sniping from some of his colleagues. It was nothing worse than the usual passive-aggressive comments, but he found himself with Dean's voice in his head calling "bullshit".  Hael had shared that her newest article would be appearing in one of the leading journals that upcoming month, fantastic news for a younger scholar. Of course Hester had to mention that no one of any note referenced that particular journal any more, so she'd just wait for the book to come out, knowing full well that Hael had received two rejections for her most recent manuscript just that morning. The other woman's face had crumpled and Castiel had snapped, leaning forward to say "And how many articles have you published this year, Hester? Come to think of it, I haven't seen your byline anywhere very recently. Or any hint of that fabled book you keep talking about."

 

It was catty and unprofessional, especially considering Hester is a senior scholar in her discipline, teaching at a small Midwestern liberal arts school. Not really a bastion of the "publish or perish" ethos, but it was a cut, nonetheless. She'd glared at him across the table and even Balthazar had leveled a speaking look at him. After the meeting, he'd even dragged Castiel aside with a low "watch yourself. They can make this uncomfortable for you" before dropping him off at his office. Where he is now. Still thinking about that stupid meeting.

 

"What is with me today?" Castiel asks the silent wall of books.

 

Guilt and annoyance roil in his gut and he shifts in his chair. He knows how departments work--the petty jealousies, vying for power and prestige. He's been working in this world since he was seventeen, training for it even earlier. So, why today? Why this of all things? It's not like he and Hael have any love lost between them since his sudden promotion. They'd gone from genial office-mates to barely acknowledging each other to what now amounts to straight out avoidance. He understands the jealousy--Hael had been at the department two years longer than Castiel--but whatever, it doesn't matter. Knowing that he was controversial enough of a figure just by breathing, he'd taken to showing up to meetings as a gesture, not saying anything, content to let others deal in power. But something in the way Hester looked at Hael today--like she was nothing and that her pain brought a sick sense of joy--was just wrong. It was too much like the group of teens the other night in the movie theater parking lot after his and Dean’s latest date, harassing a cornered street cat no more than a few months old. Too young to do too much damage, too hungry to be quick enough to escape, it was the perfect target for their still-burning cigarettes and beer cans. Dean had thundered across the parking lot, grabbing two by the scruffs of their neck while the others scattered. He'd lit into the kids good, his words whip like. By the time he'd let the two go they were shaking and the cat was long gone. Dean searched under the dumpsters in the nearby alley and even flashed his key chain’s LED light down the rest of it, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. Castiel walked with him over to the gas station across the way and to the front office of the movie theater, letting the managers know what happened and to keep an eye out for a potentially injured cat. He'd also left cards for the animal shelter down the street, just in case.

 

Idling at a red light on the way home, Castiel had lifted their entwined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of Dean's. A firm, but gentle press of lips, without a word. Dean looked over at him. They stared at each other until the light turned green.

 

They'd walked up to his door and he'd smiled at the sounds of their feet dragging up the brick walkway, Dean's treads heavier, but still in step with his own. Keys in the lock, Castiel had turned back to smile at Dean. They stood there, hands brushing, the space between them crackling. Dean had licked his lips and Castiel's breath stuttered. He'd said, "Good night, Dean" and turned the lock, waiting in the doorway until Dean pulled away from the curb.

 

The burn of want felt nothing like this burn of acid currently sitting in his stomach. Looking down, Castiel unfurls his hand to see the half-moons his nails left behind. Weeks ago he would have sat in this office, in this chair, and begun grading papers, glad he had once again slid by unnoticed. He was good at that, had a long childhood of practice avoiding being dragged into altercations between his oldest brothers, Luke and Michael. He'd made a career of it, really--making waves only in the pages of journals and his book. If his refusal to get involved had left him outside the ranks of his cadre in graduate school, so be it. He'd worked harder than the rest of them, longer hours too. When they would go out drinking together, he'd spend nights up with Rabelais and Marot, Le Mans and Herberay des Essarts. They spoke of love and ancients, or truth and nobility. But he listened even more readily to Michel de Montaigne, exasperated and enraptured by turns, so entranced that he found the man's famed phrase " Que sais-je" dropping from his lips increasingly often, to the chagrin of his colleagues.

 

" _What do I know_ , indeed," he says into the silence. He launches himself out of his chair, the tightly coiled _something_ in his gut propelling him across the small space. His fingers find the spine which just barely still reads _Essais_.  The pages catch on his fingers, margins filled with penciled notes flash by, until he finds himself once again at the beginning. His eyes tick down the page to land on words that seem to mock his last decade: De la Constance. _Of Constancy._

 

Because what has he ever been but constant? Never the one to question the plans his parents laid before him, never the one to sacrifice his education for socialization, never the one to question his motives for burning through his graduate studies, leaving no one behind to miss his presence. It was a good plan--his promotion is evidence enough of that. None of his other siblings made it this far. Anna off somewhere in Spain painting, Gabriel flitting all over the globe for his company, Michael and Luke who dragged their divisiveness to Harvard, Yale Law, and now the political stage. _He_ stayed, he survived, he _won_. Celebrated author, full professor at a school more interested in his ability to educate than churn out books, youngest faculty member in department history. But still there are ashes in his mouth, still acid in his gut. The book falls to the desktop and he places one hand, then the other, on either side, dropping his head between them. Castiel presses his fingers into the grains of dark wood, running them up and down.

 

He walks around to the other side of the desk again. He sits in his chair. Picking up his phone, he keys in the code and hovers his thumb over the last number called. _Dean_.

 

There's the difference. That's what has happened to Castiel over the past few weeks. He lets the phone drop to the desk and snorts softly. Other than the disaster that was Kyle in undergrad, he's never let anyone derail him like this. They'd never talked about it, his parents, that one semester. It was an anomaly--both the grades and Kyle. He'd let them believe it, tucked back into himself and let other people wash by him in their rush to hold someone else. But Dean made him stop. Smiled at him over the hood of his car and made Castiel _want_. And why shouldn't he? He's thirty-four and hasn't let anyone touch him in a decade. Sure, he's gone out with a few, fucked fewer, but none had made him want to take the small hard drive out from the back of his top desk drawer where it has sat for longer than he'd care to recall.  "Comme nous pleura's et irons d’une meme chose," he grates out. _How we weep and laugh at the self-same thing._

 

Montaigne has many things to say and Castiel has found far too many parallels of his own struggles in the man’s work. Not that he always agreed with the man, but his honesty and his clarity, the way he laid himself out in the text for anyone to ravage and find their own truths--that's what brings Castiel back every time. But here in this office, for the first time, Castiel understands the ethos that Montaigne lived by: one can be certain of nothing.

 

Except, he can be certain of Dean. The corners of the room swallow the laugh, but Castiel feels it in his chest. He might not know if it will last, this thing he and Dean are starting, but it feels solid in the way nothing else has. He's spent so long running towards this title, this office, this department of hyenas and a chair who doesn't seem to care what they do as long as the administration doesn't notice. He'd thought it was relief the first time he sat in his office and felt this hollow in his chest. For so many years he had burned with conviction and determination, flared brightly at each journal article he added to his CV, each time his parents brought up his work at their cocktail parties. But it lingered and it deepened and the first time he'd breathed without it trapping his lungs was in the parking lot of a bar, looking up green eyes focused so clearly on his.

 

Castiel never thought he'd be one for romantic drivel, never mind what others assumed of French scholars. But this isn't that fleeting quickness of lust or infatuation, it resembles nothing like what he had with Kyle. Instead, Castiel feels like his bones have settled. As if he'd spent so long running and never let himself catch up. And now he's allowed to breathe, he's allowed to exist outside the walls of his department and the words of long-dead men. He's allowed to watch Star Trek and completely botch roasting a chicken. Not because anyone has allowed it, but because it is what he wants. Dean never asks for more than he's willing to give. And Castiel finds that he increasingly wants to give more, even after just a few dates. Montaigne wouldn't approve, but he finds he really doesn't care. He places the book back on the shelf and hears his phone chirp.

 

" _The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly at the Newart tonight?"_ The text reads next to Dean's name.

 

" _Absolutely"_ he replies. He tucks the phone away and grabs his bag, flicking the light off behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to any and all scholars of Michel de Montaigne. Thanks to Ray for the suggestions for writers for Castiel's focus of study.
> 
> Posted early because I've got guests. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Sunlight flashes in the windows of cars that speed by the theater as Castiel waits for Dean to arrive. Campus is close enough for it to be a quick walk, but he's seen Dean circle the block twice in his thrumming black car, looking for a spot. The afternoon is warm and slightly sticky, the humidity index creeping back up from a recent reprieve. Students are starting to filter back into town with the impending semester, their chatter adding a buzz of energy the town lacks when they're gone. He likes city better like this, as it's becoming something else. Summer is nice enough--he teaches a class to keep his hand in, some semblance of a routine other than paging through dusty tomes--but it's quiet and by the end he's glad of the students to put between him and the well-meaning but inquisitive neighbors. It's one of the biggest towns in the state, but it's small town in all the ways it counts. He closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sky, soaking in the sun.  He opens them to see Dean jogging down the block towards him. Castiel smiles and waves two pieces of paper at Dean as he pulls up next to him, "I got the tickets. You get the popcorn"

 

Dean grins, "Deal."

 

They head inside and an indifferent teenager takes their tickets, directing them to the concession stand. The Newart is one of the old, great theaters. One massive screen, with a gilded proscenium and heavy red velvet curtain tied back with gold rope. The ceiling is covered in plaster detailing and delicate paintings, carefully up kept by the theater owner. Dean steers them into the just-back-from-middle row, smack in the middle. Other than the two of them, a handful of other patrons sit dotted among the seats, none near enough each other to speak easily. Dean tucks the popcorn between his leg and the armrest, balancing the box of Junior Mints behind their elbows. The theater staff must have been waiting for them to sit down because the lights go down almost immediately once they're settled.

 

The movie is familiar and Castiel recognizes it as one Gabriel used to watch during Clint Eastwood marathons at home. It plods, like Spaghetti Westerns tend to, and Castiel lets his eyes unfocus, letting the drawled dialogue wash over him.  The scenery rarely changes; he becomes familiar with the horses and their cadence. More interesting than all of that is Dean. He's glued to the screen, but in the way of someone who is meeting up with an old friend they haven't seen in a while. He knows when to smile, when to scowl. Can mouth along with most of the dialogue. He's beautiful, Castiel thinks, watching the light from the screen flicker over Dean's face, lighting up the clear green depths of his eyes, slashing through the field of freckles on his cheeks. Castiel tamps down his flicker of arousal when Dean lifts another piece of popcorn to his lips. He doesn't look away when Dean turns to look back at him, as if he's been aware of Castiel's gaze. Which of course he has. He'd felt it, steady and unobtrusive. Just like Castiel himself, it asks for nothing but for Dean to just be, like Dean's enough just as he is.

 

It's enough for Dean to tuck the Junior Mints securely next to Castiel, just over enough so he can slide his arm over, rest his hand over Castiel's. Without hesitation Castiel flips his hand over so he can slot their fingers together, squeezing Dean's hand once before letting them rest, palm to palm. He offers Dean a small smile and turns back to the screen, listing in his seat slightly to brush their shoulders together. They sit like that for the rest of the film, alternately stealing looks while the other is engrossed with the action. When the credits start to roll, Dean brings their joined hands to his lips, pressing a small kiss to the back of Castiel's hand before letting it go to stretch. He knocks over the dregs of the popcorn and swears, leaning over to sweep them back into the bag when the ticket-taking kid who apparently is also the cleanup crew gives him a dirty look. They dump their trash on the way out, Dean dumping the last four Junior Mints into his hand before tossing the box. He gives Castiel three and tosses the other in his mouth before snagging Castiel's free hand and heading for the door. The sun is low, but still strong when they exit the theater, squinting into the light. Dean fumbles in his pocket for his sunglasses, perching the aviators on the bridge of his nose before suggesting, "Want to take a walk through the park? It's nice out."

 

Castiel murmurs his assent and they stroll down Main Street. They peer into shop windows, commenting on tacky t-shirts and memorabilia. Dean offers to buy Castiel a belt buckle the size of his hand with a detailed map of Texas. Castiel counters by threatening to buy him a figurine of an ear of corn wearing sunglasses, giving the world at large two thumbs up. Most of the stores are starting to close--the main street area doesn't hold much for nightlife--but a few owners greet them as they pass, more than a couple pausing when their eyes rest on the men's joined hands before offering a smile and a wave. The park is just off the main drag and there are groups of kids playing a convoluted game of tag and some parents with kids on the playground. They follow the concrete path around the perimeter of the park, walking between the giant oaks.

 

"Not an Eastwood fan, huh?" Dean asks.

"Hm," Castiel purses his lips in thought before answering, "I prefer John Wayne, actually."

Dean stops walking, "Seriously?  You don't find him a little too-?" Dean puffs up his chest and accentuates his bowlegs.

Chuckling, Castiel says,  "You expect that, though. The overly macho, determined delivery kind of camp. His characters believe in something larger. Eastwood tends to be a bit too gritty and cynical."

Dean thinks about it for a few seconds before responding. "Fair. Wayne is too black and white for me--none of his heroes seem to have any flaws. Hard to connect with a character like that, you know?"

"Eh." Castiel knocks their shoulders together, "Shouldn't a hero be aspirational though? An avatar for the "better" we all want to be? We're Eastwood every day--with fewer horses and guns. It's nice to have a world where you can be certain of truth for a few hours."

Dean nods, ceding the point. They walk for a few more steps in silence before Castiel says, "Wyatt Earp is better than both of them anyway."

Dean grins, his face lighting with surprise and pleasure. "Goddamn right. You got a bit of a cowboy thing, Cas?"

"I took my education very seriously, Dean." Castiel deadpans, the glint in his eyes admitting everything he wasn't saying.

 

It's twilight when they find their way back to Dean's car. He offers to drive Castiel back to campus, but he declines despite Dean's insistence. The walk does him good, gives him time to control his heart rate, try to impress the lightness of his heart into his memory. He gets home somehow, hangs his keys, and takes off his shoes.  He ignores the blinking light on the message machine. The only people with that number are family and he refuses to deal with them today. There are papers still left to grade sitting on the table. Castiel stares at them for a bit before heading back to his room, stripping down to his boxers before sliding between his crisp sheets. He rolls over on his side, contemplating the empty pillow next to him as he falls asleep.

 

He doesn't hear from Dean the next day, but it's the weekend and Dean had mentioned something about seeing his brother. Instead he finds himself grading papers with _Top Gear_ on in the background, offering more detailed notes to his students than usual. He goes to the store and skips over the frozen meal section, instead grabbing a chicken and some squash to try the recipe Dean suggested. Sunday finds him under the hood of his Dart, murmuring to her. The ticking still hasn't returned, so whatever Dean did seemed to have done the trick. He takes his time washing her down, scrubbing her hubcaps, waxing her until she shines. The best part about this duplex is that he has the garage to keep her in, along with her tools, and a driveway to work on her. He texts Dean a photo of her in the afternoon sun and gets back a one-word reply "Goddamn." Castiel can almost hear it in that low appreciative tone Dean seems to use when he approves of something Castiel does and it does things to his stomach.

 

Tuesday morning on his way to campus, he texts Dean, " _Dinner?"_

A few hours later his phone beeps, _"Always."_

_"Lupe's, 730."_

_"I'll be there."_

 

Lupe's is Castiel's favorite restaurant in town. It's small and homey and Rosa makes the best tamales Castiel has ever had. Dean stuffs himself with chile colorado and beans and they drink entirely too many margaritas for a weeknight. Rosa brings them the check along with two huge waters, leaning down to give Castiel a hug and saying in a low voice "Bien ahí, está re bueno."

 

A flush races up Castiel's neck and Rosa laughs, patting his cheek before heading back to the kitchen with a wave and a demand they come back again soon.

On the way back to the car, Dean bumps into his shoulder, "So, you think I'm hot, huh?"

"Wha-I-What?" Castiel sputters, coming to a halt.

Dean rocks back on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets, and waggles his eyebrows, "You totally think I'm hot."

He bounces on the balls of his feet for a second and then relents, "I speak Spanish, Cas. Picked it up in the shop, mostly. But c'mon."

Groaning, Castiel slaps a hand over his eyes. "You're the worst."

"Doesn't mean you don't think I'm hot," Dean quips and grabs his hand, tugging him towards the car. Castiel leans his head on Dean's shoulder and doesn't deny it.

 

Sunday Dean picks Castiel up at an absurd hour to head out to dim sum at a place one of his customers owns. It's riotous. They're seated at a table of the owner's family--grandparents, uncles and aunts, a handful of kids, everyone. Every table is packed and people literally bolt down the aisles to grab what they want from the carts stacked high with wicker baskets. No one lets them order, they grab one of just about anything and set about instructing the men the proper way to eat each dish. An argument breaks out between the adults about the correct proportions of creating a dipping sauce for some of the steamed dumpling, and the kids just shake their heads, taking advantage of their distraction to push their veggies onto Dean and Castiel's plates with an extra custard bun as a bribe. They try chicken feet two ways. Castiel thinks they're more trouble than they're worth and Dean definitely prefers the hot version, proclaiming the cold version "chicken jello."  Castiel laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his sesame cake and one of the aunts pounds his back to shake it loose. Later he'll find a bruise. They eat and eat until they can't possibly any more. More types of dumplings than they can count, fluffy pork buns, rolled rice noodles wrapped around tender beef, pork ribs, turnip cakes, and a mountain of desserts cross their plates. The owners stop by and refuse to let them pay, "In return for those free tune ups" they say. As they leave she takes their hands and pronounces, "such nice boys" and makes them take home extra soup and some frozen dumplings, extracting a promise from them to return soon.

 

They're quiet on the ride back and it's alright. Castiel leans back slightly in the passenger seat, his eyes drifting shut every so often, the tips of his lashes catching the sun, feeling bloated and full. Dean doesn't bother to turn on the radio, letting the air rushing by their open windows lull them both.  Pealing bells from the late church service pierce the white noise of wind, the recorded sound harsh. As they roll past the church Dean watches Castiel take in the facade of the old church with its simple architecture, strong and somewhat forbidding like its founders. Other than mentioning that he's named for an angel, Castiel has never said anything about being particularly religious. Dean's never been much of a believer, even though his mother was. He keeps her Bible and a prayer book on the shelf with the rest of his books, taking it out only to trace his fingertips over the notes in the margin written in her tidy hand. Castiel turns back to look at Dean and smiles, reaching out to let their fingers tangle together for the rest of the drive.

 

The last turn to Castiel's place comes up too quickly. Dean lets the car idle for a minute before shutting it off. They sit in quiet for a minute before sliding out of the car, walking sedately up the front walk together. "I'm really glad you came today," Dean says, as they reach the top step.

 

"Thank you for inviting me. It was delicious."

"As if I could've gone alone. They would've trampled me, man. Or I would've exploded from eating too much."

"I'm glad I could save you from that." Castiel says very seriously, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah, you're just nice like that. The extra egg tart had nothing to do with it," Dean replies.

 

Castiel laughs, eyes crinkling and Dean can't help but reach out to rest his hand on his hip. He just has to _touch_ , just to be sure this is real because this man is beautiful and standing right here and goddamn is that just the best thing. Caught up in the angle of his hip and the soft bunch of fabric under his hand, Dean barely registers Castiel stepping closer until he's right in front of him.  He gets a quick flash of desperate blue before lips are on his and he's clutching at Castiel's shirt, his mouth (thank god) getting with the program before his brain. Castiel's mouth is soft under his, lips barely parted and it's _awesome_ because Cas is _awesome_ and _Jesus fucking Christ_ this was worth the wait. They’ve been taking it slow, so goddamn slow. He hasn’t initiated anything, even though he’s wanted to so many times, as if a touch would shatter the whole thing. But now, _holy shit_. He returns the kiss, firm but sweet, letting Castiel take the lead. They pull back slightly and Dean drops a kiss at the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the edge of his cheekbone before Castiel steps back.  Dean exhales shakily before looking up at Castiel and grinning like a kid who just won the spelling bee. The smile that blooms across the other man's face makes Dean want to kiss him again and so he does, short and sweet. Castiel hums and turns his head into the crook of Dean's neck, wrapping his arms around the other man. Dean's hands skate down Castiel's back and then they're standing there, smiling at each other, Dean's left hand in Castiel's right. Dean snorts and squeezes Castiel' hand before dropping it, knowing he's still got that goofy look on his face and having a real hard time caring. The key finally makes it into the lock and Castiel looks back over his shoulder, "Goodbye, Dean. I had a wonderful time."  

 

The best response Dean can muster is "Yeah, you too, Cas." And then Castiel is inside and Dean is on his way home, lips buzzing.  Kissing Cas is like licking a 9-volt battery. Who knew?

 

On Wednesday Dean's waiting on Castiel's porch with Chinese takeout when he gets home from his evening seminar.  Castiel grabs some plates and beer from the fridge while Dean paws through his selection of DVDs. Dean's muttering to himself and has a small stack of movies, most of them unopened, piled next to him when he returns. "Seriously, man?" Dean asks, incredulous. "Please tell me you've at least seen some of these at some point."

 

"I'm not a huge movie person," Castiel says primly. "My brother Gabriel sends me a box of those every so often. I just haven't gotten around to them."

"Please tell me you've at least seen _Star Wars_ , "Dean comments, pained.

"Obi-Wan you are not my only hope."

"Fine, you're not totally hopeless. Tell me which ones of these you haven't seen, then."

They sort through them, the list of  "must watch" much larger than the "have watched". Dean groans and claps Castiel on the shoulder, mustering up as much faux sincerity as he can, "As much as it pains me, I think we have to institute a weekly movie night. It's going to be rough, but I consider it my duty to society. And your poor students."

"Well, you're the expert." Castiel says, equally deadpan.

Dean grins and his eyes flick down to Castiel's lips, inhaling sharply. "Ah, food!" he exclaims, reaching a hand out to help Castiel up.

 

His first pick is  "Revenge of the Body Snatchers" and they've got some serious MST3K chatter going on between bites of beef and broccoli and garlic shrimp. Castiel gets caught up in it asking, "This is a sequel, Dean. They've shown up before and come in giant green eggs. How does everyone miss this?"

Dean can only laugh, "I dunno, man. Memory altering pheromones or some shit. It's science fiction--logic only exists in fits and bursts and mostly to gloss over the shitty special effects and costuming. I mean, look at those pants."

 

They haven't slept together yet, but Dean thinks about it every time Castiel smiles or looks at him or breathes.  He watches the light from the TV flicker over Castiel's features and wonders what the sun will look like on his face in the morning. If he'd be soft in sleep or just as poised as he is now, as intense in sleep as he is awake. Castiel looks over to catch him staring and shares a small smile, pressing closer on the couch, hard enough that Dean gets the message and lifts his arm so that Castiel can settle firmly into his side and ever so slightly rub their cheeks together. Pressing a kiss to Castiel's temple, Dean turns back to the screen.  He's never really had a relationship like this. He'd tried with Lisa, he really had. Had done the whole domestic thing and he loved Ben as if he was his own, but it never felt right. It had always felt like he was playing a part. Lisa figured it out before he did and let him go. It had fucked him up for a long time.  He'd tried his best and it wasn't enough. Took him until pretty recently to realize it wasn't his fault; he's not broken. At one point it would have freaked him out that he was thinking about how they fit together after, what, like three weeks? But he's not.

 

"You think loudly," Castiel murmurs. "Everything ok?"

Dean thinks for a minute, about their dinners and about the way their legs are pressed together, "Yeah. Everything is great."

 


	6. Chapter 6

The Giants are killing the Cowboys and Dean's not sure if he can handle another quarter of this misery. He's not even the world's biggest football fan, but Sam loves it and it's as good of an excuse as any for Dean to steal some time with his brother. Harvelle, Williams & Williams has the big galoot working sixty (it's more like seventy) hours a week, which is pretty average for a first year associate, but it definitely cuts into the time they get to spend together. If Sam isn't in the office until 9, he's seeing Jess or sleeping. But Sunday afternoons are theirs.

 

Beers are in the fridge, chips and salsa on the table, and wings are on their way--not too shabby. Condensation drips through Dean's fingers, cool and wet. He takes a long drag and watches yet another unsuccessful attempt at a down. "Oh, c'mon!" he yells at the screen, more out of a sense of obligation than true indignation.

 

Sam snorts from where he's sprawled out over the loveseat, "No follow through."

"Ain't that the truth," Dean salutes Sam with his beer before taking another sip. He shoves an overloaded chip into his mouth, the sharp acid of the pico de gallo bright on his tongue. "Where'd you get this shit?"

"Hm?" Sam asks, distracted by the failed conversion. "Oh, the salsa? I think Jess picked it up at Costco. It's the organic brand. Not bad, right?"

Dean considers the salsa, "Not bad at all," and shoves another chip into his mouth. Sam laughs at him and Dean glares at him around his mouthful.

The announcers finally switch to their halftime banter and Sam sits up to stretch, "This is painful. Why do we do this to ourselves?"

"It's the American pastime, Sammy!"

"That's baseball."

"Shut up."

Sam stands up, pointing at the beer in Dean's hand, "Need another?"

Dean shakes the can, it's almost done, "Nah, I'll be fine"

"You sure?" Sam quirks an eyebrow at him and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Fine, yes. Thank you." He says grudgingly.

 

Sam flashes a grin and stalks off into the kitchen. Dean's small smile slips off his face as soon as Sam leaves the room, scooting forward on the couch cushion to rest his forearms on his knees. He rubs his thumb across the red and white of the Budweiser logo, leaving trails in the condensation. The can is heavy in his hands, more than can be accounted for by the liquid left inside. Absently, he flicks his thumb against the tab, staring vaguely in the direction of the TV. The announcers are talking about some injury, but Dean can't really hear them, focusing on the drag and release of each breath.

 

A can is thrust into his face and he jumps back. Sam waves the beer before setting it down on a coaster on the coffee table. "You ok, man? You looked like you were in another world."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm ok, Sammy." Dean's gut clenches and he regrets the chips from earlier, salsa sharp and painful.

"You sure?" Sam carefully lowers himself down to his seat, his eyes never leaving his brother. He's been wound tight since he walked in, his normal running commentary curt and delivered with far less enthusiasm than normal. Sam had mentioned it to Jess that morning before Dean arrived, that his texts and phone calls were shorter than usual. "He hasn't even called me Sammy once" he'd said to her. That had stopped her as she headed towards the door. She'd walked back and reached up to cup Sam's cheek, "Just ask him, you idiot."  Never say Sam doesn't listen to his wife--he's asking. "Things ok at the garage? Is Bobby alright?"

 

"What? Dude, yes. Bobby is fine. The garage is great. Really great, actually." Dean flicks the edge of the can again. Sam waits. "I, ah, met someone there actually."

Dean keeps his eyes on his beer, held tilted down. Sam grins, "Really? That's great."

"Yeah, brought in this gorgeous Dart 170 the other day. Said it was ticking." Dean chuckles, "It was. But man, this thing was sweet. Best condition I've seen in a long time."

"Nice. What's she like?" Sam asks.

Dean stills. "Uh, well he's a professor." He doesn't look up.

Sam breathes for a second and then asks, "What's he teach?"

 

The grin on Dean's face is brilliant when he looks back up at Sam. "French, actually. He's this nerdy little dude, you know? Wears this outsized suit and this terrible trench coat. But his eyes, man. God." Dean stares off into space again with a goofy grin until Sam coughs. "Uh, yeah. But he likes Eastwood and C3PO." He trails off again and Sam waits.  "He's really cool."

 

That's as close as Dean will get to admitting he really likes anyone, Sam knows. And as much as he'd like to give his brother a huge hug and celebrate, he knows Dean would just sputter and talk about how it's not a big deal. Sam can count on one hand the number of partners Dean's mentioned to Sam, only two who had Dean this nervous. And even Cassie and Lisa didn't have his brother smiling about C3PO. So he says, "Why don't you guys come by for dinner Thursday?"

"Yeah?" the hope on Dean's face is heartbreaking. "I'll, uh, see if he's free."

"Cool. I'll double check with Jess, but that should be fine. We're done with mediation on this case tomorrow, so I should have a few days to breathe."

"You big nerd," Dean says and cracks open the next beer. The game is back and he yells, "Come on, Cowboys!" and winks at his brother. Sam doesn't even bother to kick his feet off the coffee table. He'll clean it off later. For now he's going to watch the game and text his wife about his brother's new boyfriend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have a wild Sam! Who is the Best Brother, let's be real.


	7. Chapter 7

"Good night!" Becky yells into the bay before scooting out the door and into her boyfriend Chuck's waiting Corolla. They can hear the thing vibrate from where it idles our front, an insult to their industry.  They've offered to take a look under the hood, but Chuck has shied away every time. Clearly he has no idea how to work the perks of a relationship.

 

Ash leans against the charger he's been working on all day and stretches, his wrecked t-shirt pills up over his belly, scratching. “Quitting time, boss”, he yells at Dean.

 

Dean huffs, still under the hood of the machine. He might own the garage with Bobby but that's because it was his dad’s. Bobby is the real boss here--Dean’s nothing but a grunt covered in oil who organizes shifts and manage the parts orders and the customers, but he's not the boss. Which is why he’s the one in a coverall with grease marching up his arms. He’s also the one who slams his head into the hood of the car when Ash sneaks up on him. “ _Motherfuck_. Ash!”

“Gotta be careful there, boss. Now wrap up. Jo brought grub.”

 

Twenty minutes later he finds they’ve left him a sandwich and a drink, but the chips are totally gone. Jo eyes him until he mumbled through a bite of meat and cheese, “Thanks.”

“You’re disgusting,” she says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “You’re welcome.”

 

Jo’s got some classwork to do, so she heads over to one of the tables to knock it out while Dean and Ash run some diagnostics. They’ve gotten pretty far in the past few weeks, even with his Dates with Cas cutting into his time. Far enough that they’re starting to run diagnostics on the engine, at least.

"So, how’s going with professor hottie?" Ash asks while he's keying in data points at the console.

Dean splutters, pausing his test on the bolt’s strength. "Uh, what? Dude. Do we have to talk about this? I’m kind of busy."

Ash doesn't even bother to turn his head or stop working, "Then you can’t leave. What else are we going to talk about? Painting our nails?  How much of a badass I am? Nut up and spill."

Dean frowns, "What about your ladies?"

Ash sighs fondly pats the machine in front of him, "This old thing is girl enough for me. And, besides, she's the only one who can handle Dr. Badass."

"What about Pam?" Dean asks, desperate to find anything to move the conversation away from Cas or sex or anything involving the both of those.

"Nah, she's seeing Victor now"

"Victor? Wait seriously? For how long"

"Eh they've only been on a few dates. Calm down, Lassie. You know she'd kick your ass, no matter how fine it is."

"Huh, Victor."

"Yeah, apparently he's got a thing for strong women who know their way around machinery, if ya know what I mean"

Dean groans and throws an oily rag at Ash, hitting him in the back of the head.

"But seriously. Victor?"

"Yeah, man. He even took her out to that restaurant she loves. The one with jackets."

"Holy shit."

"I know right?"

"You beauty queens done gossiping?" Jo asks from the door.

"Jesus, ow, " Dean swears, smacking his head on the side of the engine before stepping away. "We need to get you a bell"

"Aw, ashamed of your gossip queen ways?" Jo makes a moue at him.

"Ugh." Dean rubs his forehead. There's going to be a bruise later.

"We had to talk about something," Ash offers. "Dean here won't say anything about his new boy toy. He's boring."

"Oooh," Jo shimmies closer to Dean. "Hot for teacher?"

Dean groans and hangs his head between his hands, "You both suck. Shut up for a minute and calibrate the damn thing. And Jo?"

She looks back at him from where she's already wrist deep in the case, checking connections, eyebrow cocked.

Dean smirks at her, "You were last in. You get to clean up."

 

Prep done, they key up the system and have to wait for the diagnostic. Ash grabs them each a beer from the fridge they keep out here labeled "SCIENCE" and passes them around before taking the only seat. Jo settles herself on top of the desk, kicking her feet at the edges of peeling paint. Dean picks at the label with his nails, slowing peeling strips off in perpendicular lines--three lines on one side of the logo, three lines on the other. He slides one thumbnail under the other, scraping away bits of adhesive and says quietly, "It's good."

 

Neither of the other two says anything. Dean goes back to his beer label, this time tugging at the corners around the logo itself.

"Hot bod?" Ash asks

"Jesus," Dean colors. "We, uh, haven’t yet."

Jo and Ash stare at him for a moment and then start laughing. Jo has to set her beer down in order to hold her sides and Ash sniggers into his beer until he looks up to see Dean staring back at him, expressionless. "Wait, you're serious."

Dean shrugs.

Serious isn't a common look for Ash, at least not unless he's faced with a bug in his programming and then it's more of a maniacal determination, but it's the only way to describe the look that settles across the programmer's face.

"Huh."

 

The machine beeps a few more times, the silence between them grows.

"I think he's good for you," he says finally. Jo just nods in agreement.

Dean stares at them.

"But dude," Ash looks up at him again, earnest, "You _gotta_ tap that."

Dean punches him in the shoulder and Jo howls with laughter, offering her hand to him for a high five.

 

Thankfully, the console beeps to tell him the diagnosis is done. Ash peers at the screen for a bit before saying slyly, "Looks like we still have issue with friction."

"Yeah we do," Jo waggles her eyebrows and hoots at him.

Dean rolls his eyes and then grins, "That's my girl, too fast for her own good. Let's see what we can do."

 

For everything they're trying to do, what with saving the environment and all, the idea is relatively simple. But that almost makes their work harder as there are, theoretically, fewer things to go wrong and thus even fewer options for them to get it to work perfectly. Tonight is one of those nights where, after another hour and change inside the case, they decide they need a few new pieces to go further.

 

"I'll put in the order to the fabricator tomorrow morning," Dean says, groaning as he pulls himself to his feet. "There's got to be an alloy we haven't tried yet that will do what we need."

"Good luck with that" Jo quips, stretching her arms over her head, "I think they've started making things up for us at this point, we've come to them so often."

"They like a challenge. I'm sure we'll work it out." Dean grins and sends them both home, even if it's Jo's turn to clean up. He needs to decompress a bit, get his head out of the machine before he gets in his car.

 

It's not that nights in the workshop are boring, it's just that not much seems to gets done. At first it was grand ideas and using the gigantic whiteboard on the wall to sketch out their ideas, map out potential algorithms--all excitement and energy. The hours would fly by and it felt like any moment their breakthrough would just erupt and change the course of the world. Of course, that's not how anything works. Parts of their old algorithms remain, mostly erased, on the whiteboard kept more to laugh at how wrong they all were at the start. They've had to start the design from scratch more than once after the first was full of more patches than a quilt. They've streamlined the process, but Ash says they still have a long way to go before anything close to elegant. Ideas still flow, but actual tangible progress is so much slower than he wishes it were.

 

A piston from their first rough model sits on top of one of the bookcases filled with spare parts. The metal is dull, both from disuse and being left to dust, and it's heavier than anything they're working with now--most of the components now have small holes drilled through to take out weight, but this is solid and heavy with purpose. Mark A, he guesses they'd call it, if they'd named any of their prototypes. They hadn't bothered naming anything at first, too busy building and tossing things out with no regard for the material cost or time. It was just something fun to play with after a long day at the garage, a throwback to the designs and dreams they'd tossed around in auto class back in high school. Until it wasn't. Slowly, they'd taken over the white boards and strung up two more of their own. Sketchpads came back out and they rebooted Bobby's old computer with CAD software and suddenly they were two shelving units in discarded parts and a hard drive of backup equations deep in this thing. Jo had been there from the beginning and she'd dragged her Charlie in after Ash had spent thirty-six hours on code he couldn't debug. Charlie had stopped by and pointed out a conversion error in less than five minutes. Ash proposed immediately. Charlie had grinned and said "Wrong team, bucko" before slipping an arm around Jo's waist. Without missing a beat, Ash had said "I owe you a beer, then."

 

They're an odd group, this Wednesday night crew. Charlie's a systems admin for some massive corporation. She and Jo met taking a Statistics class at the Community College downtown. Jo wanted to brush up on it for the tests they were starting to run at the time and Charlie had apparently wanted to "up her DM game." Both he and Ash were lifers in the garage. Jo has her mom harping on her to take the last two courses she needs to finish her AA and transfer to the state school to finish her BA. Dean keeps slipping brochures for the university in town into her bag--he even suggested they hit up one of the free lectures there--but they find their way back to his workbench with the Engineering department circled in red and "Your move, Winchester" scrawled across the front. He appreciates the thought, really he does, but he's happy at the garage. College is for people like Sam and Jo--people who can move up and out of this town--and Ash, who needs something to do with his gigantic brain other than out-talk clients. Dean's happy at the garage, really.

 

Grabbing his sketchbook, Dean strides to the back corner, pausing for a minute to consider the two oddly shaped canvas-covered forms before pulling off the fabric with a flourish. He chokes on the dust, but then settles himself on the floor cross-legged. The leftmost is really just a heap of scrap metal welded and screwed together. It was their first full design, just to see if they could make something, and it's heavy as shit. In no way, shape, or form something that would normally show up in a project focused on fuel efficiency. But it's theirs, and the aesthetics aren't half bad, which is why they kept it. That and Jo threatened to put Nair in Dean's shampoo if he hauled it out back. The other, however, is their most recent test body. It's still not as light as it should be for a test subject, not even close to being made of carbon fiber, but it's what they could afford and it lets them test the specs of Dean's true baby, the hybrid engines. She's weird looking, but most of these super efficient prototypes are, bearing little resemblance to street vehicles. In fact, she looks more like the Disney monorail than any of the cars that roll through the garage, even if she needs some shaving down to be truly aerodynamic. That's what he's going to focus on tonight. He props the sketchbook on his knee and starts to draw.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Hester and Rachel are at the department copier the next afternoon, their chatter coming to an abrupt halt when Castiel sweeps in late. The silence is carefully neutral, but their conversation continues in hissed tones once his door clicks shut. Castiel rests his elbow on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. It's too early for this bullshit. He inhales through the nose, exhales through the mouth just like his yoga instructor told him back in college. Usually it helps, but between the whines of the dying copier, students outside his window and Balthazar throwing his door open so that it hits the wall with a bang, dislodging a few perched books, there's no hope. Castiel doesn't even bother looking up at his colleague until a paper cup from the campus coffee shop is placed in his line of sight. Only then does he open his eyes and lift his head to meet the dramatically concerned face of one Balthazar Roche.

 

"Poor Cassie. Late night?" Balthazar pulls his face into something that would resemble a simper if he didn't have three days worth of patchy blonde scruff.  Instead, he just looks ill and slightly like he's about to puke.

"Bit of a rough morning," Cas says, aiming for carefully neutral and missing by leagues.

"Ah," his friend inclines his head towards the door, "la legion d'anges."

Castiel purses his lips and the other man waves him off, "Oh, come off it Cassie. They'll get over it soon enough. You might be the youngest tenured professor in a decade for this department, but you're no _me_ , darling."

 

Castiel snorts and feels his shoulders relax. Balthazar is only half-joking, he knows. The man thinks quite highly of himself and his publishing record gives him enough heft to back most of claims. Unfortunately for him, his emotional CV isn't quite as stellar and it was surprisingly easy to brush off the man's flirtations when Castiel first started at the department. Later, after many glasses of wine, Balthazar would admit that he'd done it more out of habit than actual interest. "And then you had to ruin it by being decent" he'd despaired. "You're much too good for me anyhow. So, I'll just have to keep you in my pocket, love."

 

And he had. It was Balthazar who had convinced the department head, Uriel, to send Castiel in his place to the annual conference. And who'd convinced Castiel to submit the paper that had launched the buzz about Castiel's career. Part friend, part mentor, mostly friendly antagonist, Balthazar had also stood for Castiel in the tenure committee. There's no saying how much his support had swayed the decision, but Castiel is glad for his support. Especially since the rest of the department is huddled around the copier, periodically shooting dirty looks in Castiel's direction.

 

The coffee is bitter, but still better than the sludge in the office coffee pot. No one knows who brews it each day or when. It's better not to ask. Castiel can almost feel the caffeine hit his system while his tongue burns from the over-hot brew and he winces. Balthazar raises an eyebrow, "Lunch?"

"Please."

 

They hit the small cafe on the lower level of the architecture building. It's quieter than the food court in the student center and they both refuse to enter the dining halls on principle, even if there is a faculty dining room. This cafe has a small outdoor patio tucked into the back of the building where they grab their usual table. Mostly the architecture students swing in to grab red bulls and bagels, ignoring the surprising selection of wraps. The food isn't fancy, but it's fresh and it's far enough away from their department that none of their colleagues ever stop in.

 

"So," Balthazar says before thoughtfully tasting his miso tofu wrap, "what's the bee in your bonnet? _Les anges_ aren't enough to get you riled up like this."

Castiel stabs his salad, methodically spearing a carrot, a snap pea, lettuce and a piece of steak before placing the bite in his mouth and chewing. "I'm not sure to what you refer."

"Come off it. Storming into the department late most days, brooding in your office until late at night, those little baggies under your eyes.  I know for a fact you haven't written a word on your most recent pet project. What's wrong?"

 

He watches undergrads crossing the quad in groups of ones and twos and threes, headphones perched over ears, bags slung over shoulders. The odd graduate student stood out only by the slump of their shoulders and their purposeful stride towards the coffee kiosk in front of the library. Most of them are heading to classes they only care about in so far as they will fulfill requirements, not from any deep excitement or investment in the subject. They might like the topic, they might love it, but they weren't tied to a course yet, could change their major or focus at will. They still had their reputations to create. Clearing his throat Castiel said, "Do you ever wish you'd done something else?"

"I never regret anything," Balthazar says, smirking.

"I mean other than this," Castiel says, gesturing to the buildings around them. "What would you have done if you didn't end up as a professor?"

"Weighty topic for a Thursday " he says evenly, folding his hands together. "I know you're something of a prodigy, but aren't you a bit too young for a mid-life crisis?" At Castiel's scowl he flashes a grin and winks. "No? So serious, darling. But," he raises his hand to stave off Castiel's comment, "Of course. Who hasn't? I was going to be a cultural attaché or an ambassador's husband. Live the glamorous international life and drink only the best champagne. But then I found Balzac and here I am."

"Balzac?" Castiel asks. Because not once had the novelist come up in conversation, nor was Balthazar known for his work on him.

A smile slides across his colleague's face, "My first love, as it were. He got me through my defense and my first book with Ashgate. Then I found Zola and the rest is history." His book on the incendiary Dreyfus affair, the writer's involvement, and the power of media in the State had propelled the man into his career.

"But that's me. And, of course, I dally with other writers outside these hallowed halls. Just one love isn't enough for me, you know. I have my painting too."

"Painting?" Castiel asks.

"I have a show opening next month at the Lee," He says calmly, as if the Lee Gallery isn't one of the best regarded in the state. "I don't show often--once every few years or so.  But I keep my hand in, take some commissions and sell to a few dedicated buyers. I'm lucky," he says sipping on his drink again as if he hasn't upended Castiel's view of him. "The work soothes me, allows me to process the work I do here in a different way, and pays for trips wherever I want."

 

He leans forward, intent. "You don't have to let this define you, Castiel." He says, as serious as he's ever been. "Tenure isn't a death sentence. You've proven your worth, riled everyone up and made them listen. They know your name. They think they know who you are. If your next book turns them around again, good. Fuck them. You can't harp on one topic your entire career unlike some we may know." It's an unsubtle dig at Hester and Uriel who refuse to move from their focus on the early medieval period or even entertain the idea and while it's not kind, it's also true. "Keep them guessing and they can't stop you--won't be able to pin you down and make you dance to their tune."

 

He's quiet for a few moments, watching Castiel as he processes his words before beginning again. "You can always leave. But don't let them chase you out--don't let your doubts chase you out. I know you. You love this as much as any one can, even those bloody undergrads for whatever reason. You aren't done with this yet, but don't let our world dictate who you are. You're more than just a damn good scholar, no matter what your parents say."

 

Castiel drops his fork and Balthazar smiles kindly, "Very selective clients, Cassie. In the international scene. It’s not large enough to have missed the association." His words and his glare pin Castiel to his seat, "Don't let them beat you. You're miles too good for them and you deserve to have a life. Let your boy take you out, see where it goes. Scholars aren't monks anymore, Cassie. You are allowed to devote your life to a god outside of knowledge and the church. Use that mouth of yours for something other than dictation." Winking salaciously he stands up and sweeps his trash from the table, leaving Castiel alone with much to consider.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the department. They're terrible right? Ugh. Bad colleagues are the worst.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

Cas is in Dean’s kitchen, squinting at his phone. The recipe is easy enough--he'd been able to read it just fine on his work computer, but the ingredients are smeared gray on the small screen. Sighing, he grabs the opener and the can of tomatoes and starts cranking, mentally running through the next few steps he thinks the remembers. As he's rinsing off the can lid, he hears the front door click. "Dean?" He calls. "Could you bring me my glasses from my bag please?" He continues without waiting for an answer.

 

After some rustling he hears a think and a muffled curse that's probably Dean running into the doorway again. Cas shakes his head, chuckling to himself.  You'd think the man would be able to walk around his own house without hurting himself.

 

Arms slip around his waist and he presses back into Dean’s chest as the other man presses a kiss to the side of his head, "What are you laughing about"

"Your ability to attack the same doorway every night. It's very impressive. I’m sure it's very intimidated by you"

"Hey," Dean protests. "It doesn't happen all that often. And it wasn't the doorway."

Castiel just hums in response. He can feel Dean’s gaze boring into the side of his head, almost hear his shoulders slump.

“Ok, it was the doorway,” he admits grudgingly. “But it could have been my shoes!”

“Whatever you say.”

“Shut up and take your glasses, old man,” Dean says without any heat.

 

Castiel arches his head up and lets Dean slides his glasses on, hooking them over his ears, and peering into his eyes. "Can you see me now?" he says, grinning cheekily.

"Oh, get off me." Cas shoves Dean with his shoulder, chuckling under his breath.

The recipe makes sense again--it really is just a simple tomato sauce but he wants to do it right. Dean cooks so often for them like it’s nothing. It's his turn.

Murmuring "Two Tbs, two Tbs," he reaches for the butter and drops it in the pot. He peels an onion and slices it in half, careful to keep the root end so he doesn't have to fish out the slivers when it's done.

 

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, tracking him across the room as he turns the heat down under the sauce and reaches into the bag for the bread. "Hey, Cas?" he asks, hestiant. "What's this?"

He turns around to see his external drive in Dean’s hand. "It was next to your glasses," he explains with a shrug.

Cas blinks and then turns around to slice the ends off the loaf, then down the middle, "Nothing really. Work stuff." He takes a deep breath, staring at the slightly simmering sauce. It's not that he doesn't want to tell Dean. It's just that he's never really told anyone but Kyle and that he's bringing it home even is a big deal.

 

"Do you have papers to work on tonight? I can take care of this if you need to get that done." Dean offers carefully.

"It's my work." Castiel blurts, eyes wide at his confession. Taking a deep breath he turns around and looks at Dean "It’s a couple projects I started working on before, back in school."

"Your dissertation?" Dean asks gently and oh, that kills him. Cas sets the knife down and takes the seat next to Dean.

 

"No, not my research. My own project. I, um, started to translate the more obscure works I ran across in my classes. Some fragments, some of the more volatile thinkers, people no one really cares about to be quite honest."

"But you care."

"I think everyone deserves a voice."

It's easier now, Dean smiling softly at him, no barbed words behind his teeth. The words just come.

"They answered questions for me when there was nothing else. They asked questions for me I couldn't find words for."

"Not nothing, then,” Dean murmurs.

“No, not nothing.” Cas swallows. “I haven't worked on them since my dissertation started. They've been on there and in the back of a drawer in my desk for years. But today I felt like it was time.” He peeks up at Dean to see him nodding thoughtfully.

Dean’s throat works for a second before he says, "I'm sorry I pried. That wasn't cool of me."

Taking one of Dean’s hand in his own, Cas says, "I'm glad you did. But thank you."

Dean nods, shrugging with one shoulder. "You're important. And I honestly did think you were putting off doing important work to do this." He gestures at the kitchen. "I don't wanna get in the way of important stuff."

_Oh_. "Dean." Cas squeezes the hand in his until Dean looks back, staring intently into the eyes of the wonderful idiot. "This," he gestures between them, "is important stuff. That work is just stuff I'm working through. It's important, but I wouldn't have pulled it out of my desk after four years if not for you. So, shut up and let me cook dinner. I think it's burning."

He dashes to the stove, Dean's laughter trailing behind.

#

 

It's not burned at all, the sauce far more forgiving than he could've hoped. They each pack away a truly impressive amount of pasta and garlic bread and Dean even eats more than half of his salad. After the first glass of wine Dean asks about the hard drive. Cas talks about the classes in theory he took and the fragments they were required to translate to see how language evolved--what verbs and slang fell in and out of fashion, how the regional dialects kept their own flavor and adherents. Dean has a lot of questions about that, which leads them on a conversation about Occitan. Before Castiel knows it, he’s yawning and hours have passed. “I should head home,” he says regretfully. “Sorry for rambling so long.”

 

"Gotta say dude, you read some weird stuff. It's cool though. It’s nice seeing you so excited about something."  Dean pushes himself back from the table, resting a hand on his belly, "Damn that was good. Gotta get you in the kitchen more often if this is what you turn out."

"I'd like to, if that's ok," Cas says, his eyes earnest.

"Of course it's ok."

"I just don't want to take over your space, you know? You cook so much and you talk about how much you love it and I don't want to get in the way." He bites his lip before schooling his face.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dude. Slow your roll." Dean reaches out and takes Cas' hand in his own, "I like cooking. I like food. But I like you here, in my space. Whenever you want." _Always_ his brain supplies but _nope_ , not the time for that thank you.

"Seriously, Cas. If you want to cook sometimes and it's not because you feel like you _should,_ " and oh, Cas blushes at that and does he know his boyfriend or what. "Only if you want to, you totally can. I _like_ you here, wherever that is. You know that, right?"

"You've made it very clear, thanks." He's grinning at him and Dean would happily never cook again if that's the look it puts on Cas's face.

"But," he continues, "this is the part I've been looking forward to most."

"Yeah?' Dean asks, eyebrow cocked, his tongue flicking out to lick his lower lip.

"I cooked, you clean."

"Oh, you ass." Dean says without any heat, grinning wide.  He stacks the dishes and stalks over to the sink, exaggerating his walk as he goes.

Cas pushes himself out of his chair and grabs a drying towel, whistling appreciatively, "How I love to see you go." A flick of the wrist sends the towel to crack against Dean's ass and the other man yelps.

Rubbing the sore spot with a wet hand, Dean glares over his shoulder, "Oh, I'll get you later."

Cas grins, then turns it into a leer and leans in, letting his breath ghost at the shell of Dean's ear, "I'm betting on it."

Dean throws his head back in a full-throated laugh and hands Cas a plate, "You're a menace, Novak. Now dry. Quickly."

 

His voice drops on the last word and he lets a heated glance linger on the bared collarbone peeking out from Cas's shirt. He watches Cas swallow and hands him the other plate. They wash in silence, making swift work of the minimal pile in the sink. Dean lets the sink drain as Cas wipes down the table and then it's just them staring across the kitchen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT SORRY. I really like these two in the kitchen ok. I just...yes.


	10. Chapter 10

"Christ." Dean pushes himself out from under Mr. McClanahan's wreck of a truck, grease smeared up his forearms and across his forehead. "Can we just mark this fucker DOA?"

"No can do, boss," Ash calls from across the room.

 

Swearing under his breath Dean heads to his workstation, snagging a rag and rubbing at his arms. "Needs a new fuel line and it's rusted to shit under there. Ask Bobby if he has something at the scrap yard we can use to overhaul it? It's a bitch to get new parts of these things."

 

Henry McClanahan is edging towards ninety and refuses to stop driving or to take care of his car. He was also Dean's fourth grade teacher and got him through that year when his dad fucked off, leaving him and Sam with Bobby. He's the one that gave Dean his own worn copy of _Foundation_ and got him started thinking about robots and space and how things worked and encouraged him to look outside what he knew and ask bigger questions. Well, as much as one could get a nine year old to do. But still, Dean can't charge the man, especially on the shitty fixed income he knows teachers in this state get. He still has that copy of _Foundation_ sitting on his bookshelf.

 

Dean pencils in his hours on his timesheet and takes a look at the time to mark down his lockout. "Fuck!" He grabs his overalls and sprints to the office spewing a litany of "f _uck, fuck, fuck_." In the employee room, he throws his locker open, grabbing his keys and wallet, leaving his clean clothes.

 

"Where's the fire, boss?" Ash asks as Dean blows back through the bay on the way to his car.

"It's nine!"

"Sure is."

"Supposed to meet Cas at 7. Lock up, will you?"

 

Without bothering to wait for a reply, he throws himself into the car and tears down the street. He flips open his phone, trying to keep his eyes on the road while seeing if he has a text from Castiel. There's nothing. That can't be good. Fuck. He's such an asshole. He'd planned on taking Castiel out somewhere nice. They'd spent so much time over at Dean's house recently with Dean insisting that movie night take place at a house with an actual sound system and TV that's not eight years old, and throwing together meals where they could eat on his back patio, that he'd wanted to do something nice. He'd made reservations and everything.

 

He doesn't want to call from the car and apologize. Castiel deserves more than that. That's the whole thing, isn't it? He's still chastising himself as he pulls into the driveway. And is that? What the hell? Dean gets out of the car and jogs up the front step to kneel next Castiel where he's sleeping, propped up against the front door. Dean reaches out and ghosts his knuckles down the side of Castiel's face, murmuring "Hey, sleepy."

 

Castiel stirs, making a face as he pops his back and says, "You're late."

 

Dean chuckles and drags him upright, letting his drowsy boyfriend lean against him, saying "Gotta remember your key, babe" before manhandling him inside and onto the couch. Castiel groans, burying his head in a pillow when Dean flips on a few lights. A grown man really shouldn't be this adorable, Dean thinks. He settles next to Castiel on the couch, arranging them so that Castiel can nuzzle into the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry I was late. Got held up at work and lost track of time. Why didn't you call?"

"Was gonna but figured you'd only be a minute," Castiel says into his neck. "Your porch is not that comfortable."

Dean hums and drags his fingers through Castiel's hair, "I have soup in the fridge, if you want."

"Aw, baby you cooked for me," Castiel teases, sleepily burrowing his head into Dean's chest.

"Shut up."

 

The couch cradles them until Castiel's stomach growls and Dean extracts himself under protest.  The soup is just leftovers from the other night, but Dean adds a handful of fresh carrots to it just because.  Castiel shows no interest in eating, more interested in burrowing into Dean's side. Dean pokes at Castiel's cheek with a mostly full spoon until he opens his mouth, shoving the spoon inside. He protests, but ends up eating most of bowl anyhow. After refusing to be fed, Castiel gets most of the soup in his mouth. The empty bowl gets left on the table.

 

It's not that difficult to get Castiel down the hallway, though they narrowly miss running into the doorjamb. Swaying gently, eyes mostly shut, Castiel stands in the middle of the room, letting Dean carefully strip him out of his suit, unbutton his shirt to hang in the closet, dutifully stepping one leg, then the other out of his pants. He sits on the bed and Dean pulls off his socks, tossing them into his own laundry, before flopping back onto the bed, groaning in appreciation. "'s made of marshmallows."

 

He can’t help but smile. "What?"

"The bed. It's like marshmallows. Firm but soft. I like it."

"Ok, weirdo" Dean says, voice muffled by the shirt he's pulling off over his head. He's still kind of covered in grease, but not enough to get on the sheets. Stripped down to his boxers, Dean slides in on the other side of the bed, careful to leave Castiel some space. They've never slept over before, even on the late movie marathon nights. Castiel has waived off protests of it being three in the morning saying he's fine and that he'll call tomorrow. Dean feels a little guilty, assuming Castiel would be alright with sharing a bed. They haven't talked about it. Dean kind of pointedly has ignored it--doesn't want Castiel to think this is just about sex or whatever. As he reaches for the corner of the sheets to slide out and make up the couch, Castiel rolls over, trapping him with an arm and a leg. He nuzzles Dean's neck and grumbles, "I had plans for you, Winchester."

 

" Oh?"  Dean relaxes back into the bed, shifting slightly so they're pressed more firmly together.

"Yes. Many plans. Been planning." Castiel continues.

"Of course you have. Go to sleep, nerd," Dean says fondly, pressing a kiss to Castiel's hair.

He listens as Castiel's breath evens out and deepens, alarmed by the warmth in his chest. He's got it bad.   _But_ , he thinks as he looks at the man asleep on his chest, _it's not so bad really_.

#

 

Everything is warm and hazy in this dream. The light is golden with and shadows undulate gracefully. The warmth moves, caressing his arms, over his shoulders and down his torso, skating back up again to stroke against Dean's neck. He sighs into it and the warmth chuckles. That, more than anything draws Dean to awareness, more than the searing heat of the mouth on his neck, though that certainly helps.  Dean cracks his eyes open to see light barely leaking through the blinds, Cas curled around him, pressing open mouthed kisses to the juncture of his neck and shoulders. He groans as Cas's hand strokes down his side again. Guess he didn't have to worry about whether or not Cas would be alright sharing a bed.

 

Dean angles his head into the pillow, offering up more of his neck to Cas who takes the hint, mouthing at the exposed flesh. He kisses his way up Dean's jaw, until Dean tilts his head back and their lips meet. It's awkward, kissing at this angle, but perfect. Cas's lips are chapped and warm against his, gentle and insistent. Dean twists his torso, pressing his shoulder into Cas's chest, to get a better angle, and Cas pulls away. Dean whines slightly, following him, until Cas rises above him, one palm planted at Dean's side the other by his head. He looks down at Dean, light haloed around his head.

 

"Hey," Dean says, voice roughened with sleep.

 

"Hey," Cas replies and _Jesus_ his voice is deeper than usual. Dean groans and reaches up to drag Cas back down to him.

 

Their kisses are furious now, less the slow glide of just a minute ago, all sleep-warm and lazy, and more like two grown men who have been dating for months and haven't fucked. They'd been building up to this with late movie nights that ended up in make outs and dinners with one of them pressed up against the kitchen counter or the Impala. The last time they'd kissed like this was while watching Lord of the Rings last week, any and all epic battle scenes a far cry from the rough glide of their tongues and scrabbling hands. Shirts long gone, Dean had pressed Cas against the plush cushions of his couch and sucked deep marks down his chest. When he'd stopped to admire his handiwork with a feral grin, Cas had groaned and dragged him down for a kiss just like this one.  That time, though, they'd eased back eventually. This time, not so much.

 

Dean kisses like a dying man, desperate and needy. Cas meets him stroke for stroke, warm and strong above him. Arching up, Dean latches on to Cas's neck, laving open mouthed against his pulse, leaving Cas shuddering against him. Rolling over slightly, Dean faces Cas, running his hand down his side, up to where his chest rises and his heart flutters before asking, "Can I?"

 

" _Fuck_ _,_ Dean. Yes," Cas pants and Dean closes in to press kisses to his chest again, following his hands as they track patterns across the expanse of his chest, lick across the lines of the tattoo etched across his ribs, down to the dip of his left hip.

 

His mouth dips lower, fingers tugging at the hem of Cas's boxers, slowly peeling them down as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the ridge of his hipbone, down the line of his thigh. He noses against the heat of Cas's cock, warm and insistent. The noises spilling from Cas are a symphony. He can feel Cas gripping the sheets he leans over to lick a stripe up his cock. Cas whines and Dean smiles, kissing the side before sucking him down. It's heavy on his tongue, salty and earthy and all Cas. He slides off with a pop, caressing his hipbones with his thumbs as Cas grabs at his shoulder panting, " _Dean"._ He wraps his mouth around him again, with enough spit this time to make it wet and hot, Cas making tiny restlesss thrusts into his wet heat. Dean times the movment of his head, the flick of his tongue to the  litany of his name spilling from Cas's lips until Cas's hand fists in his hair, pulling him back up so they can slot their mouths together, Cas chasing his own taste from Dean's mouth. Licking his hand, Cas reaches down to take both of them, diving back in to kiss Dean once more. Dean groans, biting Cas's lower lip, holding onto his hips with bruising force. They slide together, slick in Cas's palm, breaths harsh against each other's necks. Cas sucks at the hollow of Dean's neck and Dean cries out a strangled _Cas_ and then comes. Cas thrusts a few more times before he too cries out into Dean's neck, spending over Dean's hips and his own hand.

 

They lay there brewing into each other for a few moments before rolling apart. Dean reaches over to grab his shirt from the floor and wipes Cas down before cleaning himself off. He tosses it in the direction of the laundry hamper before collapsing back onto the bed. " _Christ_ , " he breathes.

Cas huffs, amused, in response.

 

"Told you I had plans."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so we finally got NSFW. Hellloooooooo


	11. Chapter 11

It's different between them now. They're not different, but something is. The tension that crackles between, when they're at the table, riding in the Impala, fucking grabbing groceries is even more intense than it was before. Cas touches him more, like a man starving who has been given a banquet. Little touches, nothing out of the ordinary, but Dean notices. The way their hands barely brush, the strong hand resting on the small of his back, feet knocking into each other under the table--it's all so chaste. And it gets Dean half hard all the time. He finds himself resting his chin over Cas's shoulder when they're chopping vegetables, tangling their fingers to grab a movie off the shelf at the same time, or make sure their hips bump when they walk back to their table with drinks at the Roadhouse.

 

Charlie calls him on it after dinner at the Diner one night. She's the last to leave the booth, rummaging in her purse so she can snag Dean's sleeve. "Hey," she says. Jo and Ash have already bundled Cas through the door, all of them laughing. "So he's fry worthy?"

"What?" Dean asks, confusion written on his face. His face softens as he realizes what she means. They'd had curly fries on special today, his favorite. Usually he'd threaten everyone who tried to steal one with a fork, but he'd let Cas have the last one. "Oh. Yeah." He can feel the heat rising on his neck as she tosses back her head and cackles.

"Oh, I knew it! Let's keep him. Maybe he'll help me with Operation: Fry Snatcher." Charlie loops her arm through Dean's and starts to drag him toward the door.

“Only in your dreams, sweetheart." Dean says. They step out the door and Cas looks up at him, his grin bright and gummy. _Oh_ , Dean thinks, barely able to breathe, _I want to keep him_.

 

They say good-bye to everyone, promising to meet up again soon. Ash's scooter is propped up nearby, acid green with purple and yellow. It's awful and a disgrace to the garage and he loves it. Jo and Charlie head one direction, heads tipped towards each other as they walk away. Dean grabs Cas's hand and they head the other direction, toward the Impala. Traffic is light for a Saturday night, everyone still eating or settling in with their families. No one will be heading out to the bars for another few hours yet, so there's no one to see really as Dean crowds Cas against the side of the car and slots their mouths together. He means it to be soft and careful, to let Cas know just how _much_ this all is, but Cas surges towards him, clutching at Dean's hips, turning it into something hotter, something darker. _Mine, mine_ , Dean's brain seems to say, wanting to imprint Cas with the shape of his mouth, let him know that this is for them, that everything is for them. Cas slides a hand to cup the back of Dean's neck, pressing them closer until they have to break apart, panting into each other's mouths. He looks up at Dean through lowered lashes. Dean drops his head to rest against Cas', not moving until their breaths and heartbeats are steady. He pushes back from the car, but Cas catches his hand, bringing his knuckles to his lips for a kiss before opening the door and sliding into the car.

 

The radio is turned to the college station, which is apparently on a musical theater block as "Defying Gravity" rips through the speakers. Dean grimaces, eliciting a laugh from Cas who reaches over to switch it to the classic rock station. "Happy now?" he asks, reaching over to take up Dean's hand again.

One side of his mouth kicked up in a smirk, Dean just says "Yeah."

 

If anything, Dean's shyer about their relationship than he was before they slept together. It's only been a few times. That one _ridiculous_ morning and a movie night that ended with Cas going down on Dean while Judge Doom monologued about "The Dip". He'd seen stars. They'd had to rewind the movie. Cas got his turn later, howling as Dean sucked marks down the inside of his thighs before swallowing him down. Words had spilled from his throat in every language but the one Dean spoke. But, better had been afterward--after the shower where they ran suds down the length of each other's sides, after the inevitable tickle fight that soaked the entire bathroom--when they lay sprawled across the bed, talking softly. Dean had tucked his face into Cas's neck, listening as he told stories about the tree house his brothers had built without him, only letting him ferry a jar of nails back and forth between them. He'd been the first of them allowed up, though. The first to run his fingertips over the rough edges of the window and the floor planks. Dean had talked about growing up on the road with his Dad before they'd moved in with Bobby, about how the Impala was more of a home those days. He offered to show Cas the vent where a green army man still rests, rattling around when the air conditioning gets hit up to high.

 

They talked about everything and nothing at all until Dean felt Cas's breath even out under his head. Only then did he sit back to look at the man next to him. He fit here, in Dean's bed. The realization punched a breath out of him. But there was no icy dread, no flight impulse. Neither Lisa nor Cassie had fit this way, slid this easily into his life. The sex had been good, sure, but the rest of it hadn't been--not once they learned more about him. But Cas seems more interested in who Dean is then what Dean can do for him. He's used to being right and having other people defer to them. He likes to argue the gray areas when Dean likes things black and white and is pedantic and idealistic where Dean is less inclined to ride the hard line but is stubbornly realistic. _They fit,_ he'd thought, slipping back to his spot. _And it's not scary at all_.


	12. Chapter 12

The semester is in full swing, so they're not able to see each other as often as they'd like. Cas has his late seminar on Wednesdays and an extra session on Thursdays. He takes Sundays to spend with his car and finish up lesson plans for the week. It works well since Wednesdays are lab night for Dean and Sundays are time with Sam. That leaves the rest of the week, which gets parceled out as they can. Some days Dean heads down to campus to grab lunch between Cas's seminars, meeting at the small cafe at the student center. They talk about the students--the sophomores are particularly challenging this year-- and Dean offers his memories of Sam's stories as a student. He shakes off any questions about his own study and Cas quickly learns not to pry, though Dean picks up concepts readily when he drops them in conversation. Dean tells him about the trouble customers of the week, some of whom are actual nightmares, most of whom, though, are the Mr. McClanahan's who Dean bitches about more out of worry than actual anger. He likes to do things for people, Cas notices. He offers the last package of pop tarts to a young mother with a crying child at the grocery store, waving off her thanks; he ends up under Cas's sink when he has him over replacing a gasket so his sink doesn't leak so much; he drops donuts by the read-a-thon that Charlie orchestrates to help save the local library. He's a good man.

 

Cas drops by the shop right before closing on a Monday. A sharp whistle pierces the air when he walks through the door and Ash yells, "Civilian on the floor!" Most of the staff laughs, familiar enough with Cas by now that they ignore him as he walks by. Jo winks, but that's mostly for Dean's benefit, who happens to be wiping his hands clean with a grease-stained towel. "Hey babe," he says and leans over to press a quick kiss against Cas's cheek, "fancy seeing you here. Gimme a minute?" He gestures to his sweat-soaked shirt and heads to the employee room to scrub down. Lathering up quickly in the sink, he scrubs under his fingernails and wipes his hands over his torso for the world’s fastest sponge bath. One of the few clean towels in the shop gets sacrificed in an effort to get dry and he slips on the spare shirt he keeps in the back of his locker. They've been pulling late nights recently. Late enough that he hasn't always had a chance to head home before seeing Cas or heading over to Sam's, so he's taken to keeping a few spare in his locker just in case. This is his last. His boot catches on the edge of his coveralls as he steps out of them, but he catches himself on the side of the table just in time. The puddle of stained fabric sulks at him from the ground until he tosses them into the laundry bin and heads out. Cas is leaning against his station, joking with Ash about something absurd most likely. He slips his arms around Cas' waist and says "Yo."

 

"Yo, yourself." Cas reaches up and runs his fingers through Dean's hair "Burgers?"

"Hell, yes." He plants a dramatic kiss on Cas's cheek with an exaggerated smacking noise before dragging him back. "Let's go."

 

He lets Cas drive his time, listens to the sweet purr of the Dart's engine. She doesn't tick anymore, that's for sure. They've mostly taken the Impala around, Dean realizes with a start. Cas has never said anything, but huh. Dean chews on the thought for a bit as he takes in the gleaming dash and interior. Even the gearshift is well kept and maybe a bit smug about it. He knows Cas takes good care of his car, almost better than he does his Baby, but the level of detail he can see here is just absurd. And it's entirely Cas. He might not be the outspoken about everything or the most gregarious, but everything he does is with attention to detail--he shows his interest and his care in the small things. He'd brought over a six-pack of a new beer Ellen introduced them to one night, one that is supposed to be the hardest to get hands on if you're not in the industry. And he'd brought it over for pizza and movies without a word, just because Dean had liked it. He'd organized Dean's records one morning before Dean woke up, put some Springsteen on real low and swayed in the front room as he slipped each record from its slipcover to make sure it matched the sleeve before nestling it in with the others. He's careful with everything but himself it seems, working late into the night to offer detailed notes to his students so that Dean has to push him off the couch and bully him into bed. His eyes light up when he talks about his work and he'd once come over with all the ingredients for risotto after it had been the one answer neither of them had gotten right while watching Jeopardy. With a soft smile, Dean rests his hand over Cas' on the gearshift, letting the vibrations of the road pour through them.

 

Elizabeth's is the best diner in the area, bar none. Not that he'd ever tell Ellen, but he actually thinks their burgers are better than the Roadhouse. But their fries are terrible, so his loyalty can stay intact. Benny waves at them from behind the grill top, "Sit wherever you like." They snag the table in the back, the one closest to the jukebox, which shields them from most of the rest of the diner. Dean doesn't bother to look at the menu, watching Cas instead as he pours over every line, as his lips move ever so slightly as he runs through the list of pancakes and omelets and burgers twenty-five ways. Clearing his throat, Benny gets their attention, amused as their heads snap to him in unison. "Howdy, boys. What can I do you for today?" he says in his soft Louisiana drawl. No one is quite sure how Benny made it up here, so far from the bayou. When asked, he says he just followed the river and smiles with all his teeth showing. His wife, Andrea, works the counters on the weekends. During the week she works for the doctor in town as a phlebotomist--they say you can't even tell when she's pricked you and no one is as good at drawing blood as she is. But that means it's just Benny out here and sometimes their niece Claire who picks up shifts when she's not in class.

 

"Bacon cheese burger and a chocolate malted shake," Dean says.

"Those are gonna kill you one day, brother." Benny says with a sly grin.

Snapping the menu shut, Cas says "Cheeseburger and a vanilla shake."

"Sure thing. They'll be out soon."

 

Once Benny is back at the grill, Dean reaches out to take Cas's hand. The bacon hisses as it hits the griddle, the sizzle of the patties following it close behind. He runs his thumb over his knuckles, feeling the tension run out of Cas's hands with every stroke. A little part of him preens at the display of jealousy, tiny as it was. Not that he'd ever admit it, but it thrilled him a little. Cas isn't the demonstrative type, rarely initiates any of their contact in public, and Dean doesn't need to be paraded around, but it's nice to know that the impulse to growl at intruders isn't one-sided. He'd snapped similarly the first time he'd met Balthazar. Cas hadn't said anything, just settled his hand on the small of Dean's back and let Dean lean back into him. Much like Benny, Balthazar had smiled toothily and retreated to his office.

 

"Want to listen to anything?" he says instead, nodding towards the jukebox.

Cas shakes his head, "Whatever metal you'll insist on will curdle my milkshake."

"Oh come on." Dean grins, knowing the way this conversation goes all the time, "Classic rock is exactly what diner food needs."

"You think it's what everything needs."

"Because it's true."

"Pfft," Dean scoffs. "Alright, tell me a better band than Led Zeppelin"

"The Yardbirds"

"Pink Floyd"

"Agent orange"

"Queen."

"Hm, point." He sucks on his milkshake, the white liquid rising in the straw annoyingly erotic. "The Who."

"Acceptable. Metallica"

"Joy Division"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean looks over, eyeing his boyfriend who clearly has questionable, but not entirely shitty taste in music. "Love will tear us apart?"

Cas rolls his eyes, "It's a chilling look into the mind of someone dealing with traumatic health and relationship issues who also happened to be one of the pioneers of post-punk. Not some misty mountain and hobbits bullshit, Dean."

 

Eyes narrowed, he looks at him over his melting drink, daring him to say anything. Dean cracks up. He laughs so hard he has to push his food to the side, groping for a napkin to press against his watering eyes. When he finally pulls himself together an embarrassing amount of time later, it's to see Cas smugly finishing off his milkshake and he thinks he could love this man.

 

In the car they agree on the epic merit of Queen, Bowie, and The Who and share a mutual distaste for Billy Joel. The Dart glides into Dean's driveway like she belongs there and Dean might spend a moment too long admiring the way she looks in front of his house while Cas uses his shiny new key to open the door.

 

Shaking the bag with their slices of Elizabeth's signature sour cherry pie Cas calls Dean back, "Earth to Dean. There's pie and I'm not sharing it."

 

"Like hell you aren't," Dean says, crowding his boyfriend through the door, drinking in the smile hovering at the edges of Cas's lips.  While Cas sets the pie on the coffee table, Dean grabs the movie, "We're on _Temple of Doom_. Get ready for some ass-kicking, Indy style."

 

They settle on the couch, sides pressed together, knee to shoulder as the opening credits roll. Placing a bite of pie in his mouth, Cas hums. "Good, right?" Dean says, shoveling a forkful into his own mouth.

 

"Mmhm," Cas says around a second bite, cuddling in closer to Dean's side.

 

Somewhere after the first heart extraction what's left of the pie gets abandoned, the oozing red filling a little too reminiscent of the contents of Mola Ram's hands. During the mine cart chase, Cas ends up tucked under Dean's arm, mouth distractingly close to Dean's neck. Once he notices, Dean shudders at each exhale, completely missing some of his least favorite lines of terrible dialogue. If he weren’t determined to give Cas the full pop culture experience, he would have gladly forgone this particular film, if not for the blatant racism than for the bug dinner scene alone. _Ew_. Without turning from the screen, Cas runs a hand down Dean's side, the instinctive gesture soothing. He presses a kiss to Cas's temple, resting like that, staring unfocused at the screen.  A few beats later Cas's lips are on Dean's throat, fluttering light kisses upward. Dean sighs into it, letting his eyelids droop, ducking his head down to catch Cas's lips with his own.

 

Keeping the kisses light, Cas presses Dean back into the couch. For the most part, Dean's usually been the instigator when they mess around, but he's more than happy to let Cas take the reigns. Sighing, he offers more of his neck, letting Cas mark it with his lips, nip with his teeth. He sucks harder at the hollow of his clavicle and Dean knows the bruise will ride right under the collar of the shirt the next day. That thought alone makes him moan. Cas swings his leg over so he's straddling Dean, pressing him into the back cushions of the old couch. Dean settles his hands on Cas's hips, fingers digging in when Cas bites his shoulder through his shirt. His thumbs slip under the hem of Cas's shirt, caressing the grooves of Cas's hips that buck under his touch. Cas moans against Dean's mouth, thrusting his tongue inside to sweep away the last lingering taste of pie, shoving his hands under Dean's shirt. His movements are restless, he pants along Dean's face when Dean arches to explore his neck, eager to reciprocate the affection Cas has been lavishing on him.

The broken sounds pouring from Cas's mouth are beautiful and perfect and _fuck_ he is going to come in his pants just from the way his boyfriend pants his name. Cas grinds his hips down against Dean's, fully hard already. Dean bites down at the juncture of Cas's neck and he keens, scrabbling to shove Dean's shirt up his chest. They pull apart just long enough for Dean to pull his shirt off and throw it aside before Cas's mouth is back on his. They buck against each other, breathing their names in a litany of _fuck_ and _Cas_ and _shit_ and _Dean_ until Cas's left leg starts to vibrate and play music. They ignore it the first time, occupied with the breathy sounds stuttering from their mouths. The second time Cas shoots one hand down to silence it before going back to town on Dean's chest. The third time, though, Cas sighs and pulls back. "Ignore it," Dean whines.

Cas sighs and looks down at his phone him his hand. He stiffens and pulls away, shoving his phone into his pocket and pulling his shirt back into place. "Hey, whoa," Dean exclaims. "What's wrong?"

But Cas is already shoving his feet into his shoes. "I have to go," he says and then he's gone, leaving Dean with the remains of their date strewn around him, staring at the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, no! Cas! What's wrong?


	13. Chapter 13

The phone sits in its cradle and doesn't ring. He stares at it for another half an hour and it still doesn't ring. The message machine, which has been blinking for the past handful of days with just-missed messages or the handful kept for reference sits empty and lifeless. Takeout cartons are littered about and he frowns at the water rings spotting his coffee table. His tongue is slick with the taste of grease, though he can't remember a thing he's eaten since the last bite of pie at Dean's. If he hadn't had classes to teach he wouldn't even know how many days have passed. Thank god for TA's who can do grading--though Samandriel had about fainted when Castiel had pushed the stack of essays across his desk at him. "It's only three to five pages. Check thesis, mark off egregious spelling and grammatical errors," he'd said pinning the grad student to his chair with wild eyes. He'd almost felt guilty, watching the student slump out of his office and off to his carrel, finding himself too exhausted to muster even a smudge of that emotion. He'd called Gabriel again.

 

And now, it's done, as much as anything ever is with his brothers, and for the first time in five days Cas relaxes back into his chair, letting the tension ease out of his shoulders. They'd staved off potential political and social catastrophe and he's talked his mother's doctor into keeping her so doped up on her anti-anxiety meds he'd be surprised if she remembered anything from the week other than the extraordinary number of phone calls from her children. He rubs his chest, pressing against the tightness that's been lodged behind his sternum for days. He'd left the east coast for a reason, beginning with the pile of empty Tums wrappers ribboned through the rest of the mess on this table. Glancing at the clock, he sees it's not as late as it feels (when was the last time he slept?) and scoops up his keys with one hand, his coat with another and sets off into the evening.

 

#

 

Alex Trebek interviews another awkward contestant, but Dean can't hear what the schoolteacher from Illinois says over the loud knocking on his front door. His back pops as he pulls himself off the couch, grumbling. It's Tuesday so he's not expecting anyone and it's after dark so it's not like any of the neighborhood kids with a ball over the fence, but he's definitely not expecting to see Castiel on his doorstep.

"Oh," he says.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel replies.

 

Dean says nothing, but leaves the door open and turns to walk back to the kitchen, letting Castiel shut the door behind him and hang up his coat. Castiel takes his shoes off so he doesn't track water in from outside. It's not raining hard, just enough that the patter of it emphasizes just how quiet the house is. He can hear the murmur of the TV, but otherwise it's oddly silent. It's strange. Dean is loud--even when he's not saying anything his presence makes itself known, as if the world vibrates in his presence. Tonight it's silent, subdued, and he can hear the sweep of his trouser cuffs against the floor as he follows Dean's path into the kitchen. The man himself leans against the far counter, a beer in his hand. Another bottle is open on the table, water beading the rim. The glass is cool on his lips as he takes a sip and lowers himself into the closest chair. He could weep for how good it feels to sit down in this chair in this kitchen where there are no family members calling at all hours, just the smell of garlic bread and _home_. The silence presses on him and he looks up to meet Dean's eyes, guarded and not quite focused on him.

 

Neither breaks the heavy silence, choosing instead to stare at each other across the small room, alternately raising a beer to take a sip and watching the other do the same. Setting the bottle down, Castiel drags a hand over his face. He swallows and presses a hand against his sternum, trying to find the right breath. Before he can say something, anything, Dean says quietly, "Five days, Cas."

"What?" Castiel looks up to see Dean has set his beer aside, the label torn at the edges, his hands splayed behind him to grip the edges of the counter.

"Radio silence. Five days. What brings you here?"

Castiel closes his mouth with a click, watches the way Dean's jaw clenches. "I'm sorry."

Dean barks out a harsh laugh, "Okay. So that's it, then?"

"That's what?" Cas tilts his head and Dean can't help but see the honest confusion in his eyes.

"That's it. Finito, kaput. You tear out of here like you've bitten into a moldy sandwich and that's fucking it?" His voice is carefully calm, delivered with needle-like precision.

 

Cas jolts upright, gripping the back of the chair. _Oh_. This was not something he'd considered. _Shit_. He lifts a hand up as it could help him pull the words out of his chest and drops it heavily on his lap "Oh, Dean. No. I--shit. No. One of my brothers called with a family emergency. I've been dealing with that all week and I didn't think."

"Oh, well that's better," Dean snarks, his knuckles white around the edge of the counter.

Chastened, Cas looks up at Dean, apology writ across his face, "I'm sorry I should've told you."

"Damn right you should have." Dean says, swinging the chair opposite from Cas around to sit in it backwards, leaning his chest against the back of it. He takes a pull from his beer, closing his eyes as the liquid slides down his throat, steadying his breath. "Don't scare me like that again," he says, softer.

"I'm sorry," Cas repeats and he means it. He never wants to see Dean like that again, hard eyes and flat voice.

"What happened?" Dean asks.

"Just my brothers again," Cas waves it off, rolling his eyes.

"And?" Dean prompts.

"And? We took care of it. Not a big deal."  It had been a pretty neat job too, if he says so himself. Maybe playing departmental politics actually has a real-life application.

 

Dean sets his beer on the table very deliberately, his brow pinched. "You disappeared for a week. Kind of a big deal."

"And I've said that I'm sorry for that. I'll be sure to tell you if it happens again." Cas says, his patience fraying.

"Oh my god, that's so not the point." Dean pushes himself up, stalks across the kitchen, and turns around. His mouth gapes before his lips thin. "It's part of the point," he grits out. "That exit? Kinda personal. All you had to say was that it was a family emergency and that you had to go, but you'd call later. You disappeared, Cas. Fucking gone. Didn't answer your cell, didn't respond to texts, or respond to messages I left _at your fucking department._ What the hell else am I supposed to think, but that I did something or you don't want me around."

 

Cas stares at him, wide eyed. He didn't recall any texts, but to be fair he hadn't focused on anything that wasn't Gabriel's or his parent's numbers for days. He certainly hadn't checked his office mail or voicemail. "I'm sorry. It wasn't about you. It was just family." He feels like a broken record, but he's not sure what else he can say to erase the pained look from Dean's face.

 

Dean snorts, "You still don't get it, do you?" Licking his lips he continues, "It's not about the disappearing. Ok, so it's a little about that. Because that? Dick move. But I get that this is still kind of new and that you got carried away and honestly didn't think about it. I do. But you didn't tell me, Cas." His voice breaks a little. "You left and I heard nothing and now I hear that you've been handling a family emergency for five days? And you look like shit. How much have you even slept?"

 

He looks at Cas, still uncomprehending and takes a deep breath. "We're supposed to be in this together, Cas. A team. If this," he motions between them, "is going to be a thing? We have to be in this together. You have to let me know when shit is hard, let me be there for you, let me help out."

"It wasn't a big deal, Dean," Cas snaps. "It's my family. I can deal with them on my own without you coming in to save the day. I'm a big boy."

"That's not the point, Cas. The point is sharing your life, letting me be there for you and offering whatever support you need so you can handle them alone. I don't want to fight your battles, I just want you to trust me to stand by your side to back you up."

The label of the beer is gone now, torn to pieces and littering the floor. "We're in this together or not at all, babe. You cut me out like this and it feels like you don't want me in your life-- the real parts that hurt and suck. And if you can't trust me to be there, if you don't want me to be there, then." Dean shrugs and swallows hard, hands out in supplication.

"You're going to break up with me because I was dealing with my family? Really?" Cas spits. The tightness in his chest has calcified, brittle and sharp--he feels nothing.

"That's not the point and you know it." Dean argues.  "The point is that you don't let me in your life. I've been to your apartment three times. I've been by your office once. We don't talk about anything heavy--I don't even know what your current research is. I know you've got a coworker who is an ass and your students are hilarious, if a bit ridiculous, but do you not want me to know your life, man? I feel like I'm standing outside by myself a lot of the time. I deserve more than the scraps of your life, Cas."

 

Both of them are breathing heavily now, tension thick between them. Dean's jaw is set, his eyes heartbroken and wet.

 

Cas can't breathe. He walks out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, stupid boys.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean's right. Cas knows he's right. Things had progressed so naturally between them he hadn't even thought about it.

 

Back in his own apartment, he sits in the dark, staring at the cold TV screen. He's been spending at least three nights a week at Dean's place--Dean cleared space for his toothbrush, a spot by the door for his briefcase, a hanger for his coat. He borrowed boxer briefs at will and picked up a new package of socks to add to the drawer, just in case. Cas hasn't done laundry at his place in a while--the clothes in the laundry bag the same as they were two weeks ago. Dust covers his dresser and his fridge is depressingly empty except for some half-eaten wonton soup. _Dean's never cooked in here_ , he thinks, sure that Dean would have made fun of his meager spice drawer. He tries to picture Dean sitting on his couch and it just feels wrong, easily morphing into one of Dean on his own couch, head thrown back in laughter. The most vivid image of Dean at this place is of their kiss on the front stoop.

 

Hanging his head between his hands, Cas sighs. He'd carved time out of his week for Dean, but it was time away from the world, time to leave work behind and forget all about it. He never brought over grading or reading to do, rarely talked about his own work. _I'm an idiot_ , he thinks. He thumbs through his worn copy of _Essais_ and for the first time finds that Montaigne has nothing to say.

 

He's not sure how long he sits there in the dark, but it's long enough that his phone buzzing startles him. It's a text from Gabe that reads: _Don't be an idiot. Don't let them win_.

 

He doesn't even want to know how Gabe knows that he and Dean had a fight, but his brother knows way more about everything than he ever should. Sighing he kicks the empty paper takeout bags out of his way and locks the door behind him.

 

Most of the lights are out at Dean's, except for the one in the kitchen. The Dart rumbles to a stop and he closes the door quietly, not wanting to disturb the neighbors. The tenant of the upper duplex never seems to be around, but Dean had mentioned Mrs. Jakowski next door and Mr. Evans across the street are light sleepers and exceedingly nosy.

 

The latch to side yard is loose, so he pushes the gate open, praying the grease they'd put on the hinges a few weeks ago will still ease the way. There's no squeak as it swings shut behind him and he pads around the corner to the kitchen door. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the window. Through the curtain he can see Dean's sitting at the table, can see his shoulders tense before he pushes back from the table. Cas steps back as Dean opens the door. He smells like whiskey and his eyes are red-rimmed and tired. "What do you want, Cas" he asks, his voice so empty Cas wants to cry.

"Can I come in?" he says.

Dean walks back to the table to pour himself another few fingers of amber liquid, letting Cas shut the door behind him once again. This time, though, Dean doesn't offer him a beer, just watches him sit in the chair he'd left a few hours before. With nothing to distract him, no bottle labels to pick at, Cas has no choice but to just say, "You're right."

 

The only answer he gets in response is a grunt from across the table. Unable to meet his eyes quite yet, though he knows Dean's eyes haven't left him since he sat down.

 

Licking his lips he says, "My family has always kind of been...overwhelming. My oldest brothers are nightmares, my sister hasn't spoken to us in years, Gabe is all over the place. So, it's always just been me trying to keep us all together. Trying to keep the peace and make my parents proud."

"Which means they've always turned to me to fix everything, even if it's my idiot brothers threatening to take each other to court and try to firebomb each other's political careers. It would damage the family name and my mother," he breaks off on a bark of laughter. "She threatens not to survive it every time they do this. So she takes to her bed and eats her pills and I make phone calls and promises and make it go away. For a while at least."

 

A sardonic smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, "At least this time they waited until I wasn't in the middle of fieldwork in the most exclusive archive in France. Not that my research matters to them."

He takes a deep breath and meets Dean's eyes, "I've never been able to tell my family no. I know it's not healthy, but I'm not sure..." _If they'd keep me otherwise?_ _Notice if I didn't and am terrified to find out?,_ he thinks.

 

Shaking his head he says more firmly, "But you're right. I should have told you. And you have no reason to believe me, but I wish you'd been there." And it's true, he realizes as he says it. His chest aches as he realizes that those stones in his chest are from missing Dean. "I hate it when you're not around and I didn't even." He swallows hard, "You're important to me and I want you to know me and I want you to know that I'm in this and I _want_ this and I...I'm terrible at this."

Finally he looks up to meet Dean's eyes, realizing his own are wet with unshed tears, "I don't know how to do this, but I want to. With you. If you'll still have me."  He lays his hand palm upright on the table.

 

For a terrible moment neither of them moves, then Dean lays his hand over his and Cas lets out a shuddering breath.

"I might be terrible at this." Cas admits.

"I'm not great at this either." Dean tightens his hold. "But don't shut me out again, ok? The past few days have really sucked."

Cas nods in agreement, "Really sucked."

Dean grins at him and Cas smiles in return. "Oh," he says, face falling. "I do tend to disappear into my office when I get wrapped up in research. Like with this whole thing--I get, uh, tunnel vision. It doesn't mean I'm avoiding you or don't want to be with you. It's just...what I do."

"Just, warn a guy?" Dean asks. "Just a text saying _in library forever, super nerdy_ would help."

 

"I can do that." Cas smiles and him and brings their joined hands to his lips. "Do me a favor too?"

"Hm?"

"If you feel like this again, worried or angry, tell me?"

Dean colors and mumbles, "Yeah, I'll try."

"That's all I can ask"

"Thank you."

"For what?" Dean asks.

 _For fighting with me, for wanting me, for letting me try._ "For being here."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be, babe."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! Settled with relatively little angst like adults. Right?


	15. Chapter 15

It's not always easy and it's not always equal, but they make things work the best they can. Dean spends at least one night a week at Castiel's, though Cas isn't shy about the fact that he prefers Dean's place to his own. Castiel's books keep migrating to Dean's place, but a few oil-stained magazines find their way to Castiel's coffee table too. He brings lunch by the garage on days when he's got a longer break between classes or just doesn't want to deal with his colleagues and perches on Dean's bench if he's stuck under a recalcitrant car through his break and chats with Ash about obscure philosophers and the results from Bonneville or gossip from Sturgis. Even Bobby is impressed with how much he seems to know about the industry.

 

"Should let him pick up your extra hours, " Bobby says one afternoon after Cas has left.

"Jesus," Dean yelps, almost cracking his head on the hood. "Warn a guy?"

"Just 'cause you're mooning over your _boyfriend_ doesn't mean I gotta wear a bell, dumbass." Bobby snarks, clapping Dean on the shoulder. "You know," he says before heading back to the office, "I bet he'd like to see what you've been working on back here."

 

Dean doesn't reply and Bobby doesn't say anything else, just claps him on the shoulder again and ables off to the office. He'd had the perfect opportunity to say something at lunch. Cas and Ash had been talking about the future of Bonneville and the advance in technology. It would have been nothing to say  "You should see what we're doing here" but the words didn’t come. Their stuff was mostly theory still, not really anything proven or that he could show. And, if he's honest with himself, which he really tries not to be pretty much ever, the thought of telling Cas terrifies him. He knows their work is good and that it's real, but what if Cas sees it and thinks it's cute, or worse, a joke? He knows he's not the smartest guy out there, he barely squeaked by getting his Associates and only after Sam badgered him about it, but he doesn't want Cas to know that. The guy seems to like him for some reason and Dean's not about to hand over ammunition that will kill that. He can't tell him. He just can't.

#

 

Work in the shop is slow, but steady. They haven't made any big breakthroughs in a while, but that's how it mostly goes. It's all about the minor tweaks, waiting for parts to be delivered, and swearing at the compiler. Used to be Dean would be on top of everyone, anxious at the lack of progress, only content when constantly in motion. Now though, he's happy to let things be for a bit, stare an an equation for longer and try to really understand what's going wrong. There are fewer arguments about the music, materials, variables to keep in check--Ash joked that Dean's gotten boring. Jo said he's just found an anchor. He'd laughed, saying that that made him feel like a big tanker, lost at sea and she said, "more like an ambitious tugboat."  They'd nearly knocked over one of the big steel storage units with their tussling. He'd never admit it, but she's not entirely wrong.  He feels like he's been fighting against waves his entire life and now he's in the calm of a storm, with something to bring him home. Wednesdays don't run as late as they used to, all of them eager to cry off before midnight, and they get about as much done and most of the work is actually better. Though Dean doesn't go home to Castiel, like Jo does to Charlie, he can smell him on his sheets, knows there will be a good night text waiting for him once he's done scrubbing his body with the pumice soap Castiel left in his shower a few weeks ago. There are too many years of grease in his hands to get it all out, but there's something to be said for being able to scrub off the day, peel off the garage and just be Dean.

 

The smell of the soap lingers, even when they attend the lecture series on campus for the PhD candidates on track to defend this year. Though Castiel doesn't have any students he's advising up for defense yet,  he likes to hear what the the cohorts are up to. He leans over periodically, whispering about one student or another's work ethic, terrible jokes, or who is sleeping with who. Most of the topics are so obscure even Castiel doesn't care about them, but he likes to be there. After the first lecture Dean asked him why and he'd paused while chewing on his Pad Thai. He'd swallowed thoughtfully and said, "There's nothing worse than giving a lecture to five people in a huge room. These kids, these scholars, we're supposed to, as their faculty, make them feel like their scholarship has merit, has a place in the conversation. By being there we let them know that their ideas are worth listening to, that their voices are important. And it helps them hone their performance, how they talk about what they love." He takes another bite, brow furrowed, "Not every bit of research we do makes a big splash, but it's another piece in the larger puzzle of scholarship, making what we do better, more complete. Academia chews people up, rips apart their work to find any flaws and rarely celebrates their triumphs. It's important they have a space where they can feel supported while they figure out who they are as scholars and how they're going to do what it is they want to do. Not all of them are going to make it." The statement looks like it pains him, "That's just reality. But if by sitting through a lecture on the linguistics of Middle French can benefit my field as a whole and maybe help a young scholar find their path? Worth an hour of boredom." He says it like it's nothing; like it's something rooted so deeply in who he is that he doesn't think about it at all. And Dean knows he doesn't. But he also knows that no one else in the department shows up to most of the lectures. He wonders if anyone had ever done that for Castiel, but he knows the answer.

 

Dean leans over to kiss his cheek, "You're such a sap."

"Shut up." He takes the last summer roll, even though it's Dean's, forcefully taking a bite as if he's got a point to make.

"It's a good look on you." Dean grins and signals the waitress for the check.

 

#

 

The  semester grinds away in a steady progression of lesson planning, grading papers, panicking undergrads, condescending clients, liters of oil and a few bruised ribs. The latter are Ash's fault, but Dean' refuses to explain how and why. Castiel lets it go, figuring it's a pride thing, focusing instead on the myriad ways his intermediate class has found to fuck up the plusque parfait or misspell Moliere.

" _Idiot_ ," Castiel spits at a paper that's particularly bad considering his brow has been furrowing more and more deeply as the pages progress. "I just," he sighs and rests his head back on the couch. "Do they even _read_?"

"Nope," Dean says and pops a grape into his mouth. "Sparknotes, buddy."

"Oh, the last one certainly," Castiel agrees, peeling the skin off the grape with his teeth. "But this one didn't even get that much. It's like he swallowed a thesaurus and only spit up words with more than three syllables. And they're all _wrong_."

"Do you want to look at snow tires?" Dean holds up the catalog he's been working through to prep for the winter season.  "I've already done chains."

"I don't know anything about them. Should I get some?"

Clasping the catalog to his chest, Dean gasps dramatically, "Heathen. And I kiss that mouth." Grinning, he leans into Castiel's side, "Lucky for you, the perks of dating a gear head means you get hookups with nice stuff so you don't die in Winter. C'mere."

 

Castiel rolls his eyes, but sets his stack of papers aside and scoots closer to Dean, pulling the catalog over so he can see. Over the next hour or so, Dean explains the difference between regular and snow tires, heading off on tangents about force per spare inch and friction. From there he tells him about what makes the brand different and edges into a history of vulcanization when he sees the amused look on Castiel's face and stops. "Sorry," he says, embarrassed.

"No, that was really interesting," Castiel says, squeezing Dean's knee. "It's different knowing the mechanics behind things we just buy because we're told to. I'm now, frankly, horrified by my tires."

"You should be more ashamed of taking that baby out during Winter at all. She deserves better than salt and ice."

"Do you think? Well, then I'll talk to Jeeves about wintering her and pulling out the truck instead."

"Look who thinks he's funny." He grunts as Castiel elbows him in the ribs while getting up off the couch.

"I'm hilarious," Castiel says, walking into the kitchen. "Like you're any better," he calls back with his head in the fridge.

"Hey!" Dean says, "At least I have a garage for her."

Pursing his lips, Castiel nods and hands Dean a beer, "Point."

 

He settles back under Dean's arm, curled up in silence for a few minutes. "You're good at that, you know," he says.

"Hm?"

"Explaining the physics of snow tires. Really good."

Dean's shoulders lift into a shrug, "It's my job."

"No, it's more than that," Castiel presses.  "I've never had a mechanic or car enthusiast explain anything that way. They just  know what works and tell you to buy it. You _get_ it."

"I guess." Another shrug.

"I'm trying to compliment you here, ass."

"For being good at my job? Thanks a lot."

"No, I knew that. Everyone knows that. No one's been able to explain something like that so I can understand. I'm terrible at math." He confesses.

"I don't believe it." Dean pulls back to look Castiel in the face, daring him to lie.

Staring into his eyes without flinching Castiel says, "I failed physics in high school. My parents don't talk about it. Ever. They wouldn't talk to me for two weeks after the reporting period."

"Shut up."

It's Castiel's turn to shrug, "It's true."

 

Dean's laughter rings through the room and it's the best thing Castiel has ever heard. He can't help but grin back at his actually fucking brilliant boyfriend who is currently wiping tears from his eyes.

"It's not that funny," Castiel says.

"Oh, but it is, " Dean insists. "You're disgustingly good at everything. Can you balance a checkbook?"

"Shut up." Castiel punches Dean and his idiot boyfriend just grins like a  loon, hooking his arm around his neck and pulling him in to kiss him on the temple.

"You're officially removed from first officer on my spaceship, but you're cute so maybe you can reapply as a communications officer."

"What?" Somehow the conversation has gotten away from him and Castiel just stares.

"Dude. Star Trek? You were the Spock to my Kirk. How are we even dating?" Dean shakes his head in disappointment.

 

Slinging his leg over so he's straddling the other man's lap, Castiel looks at him through his eyelashes and says, "I think it was because you liked my...ride." His hips roll just slightly and Dean's hands squeeze on his thighs.

 

The papers and catalog end up on the floor, forgotten.

 


	16. Chapter 16

The Harvest Festival in mid-October is the biggest celebration the town has. It's got livestock, baking and canning contests, a full midway, booths of local art and produce, and even a respectable car show. It's packed with locals and students alike, drawing people from the more rural communities and even the larger metropolises from the north and west. Their live music stage brings big names, most of whom like to play this podunk town because it reminds them of their roots or some shit. But people seem to like it. Though he's lived here for a few years, Castiel has never been to the festival, "Too likely to run into students' he protests, but gives in when Dean promises him terrifying fried treats. For all he's a fancy professor and has seen the world, the man is a sucker for junk food, which suits Dean perfectly. It  means they can try pretty much everything, since they can share. They ride the ferris wheel and tilt a whirl--Dean absolutely does not cling to Cas's hand when they're paused at the top of the wheel, able to see the fields flow far beyond them. They even run into a few kids from Castiel's grad seminar (literally) at bumper cars. They eat funnel cake and fried oreos, fried butter, and possibly the best burger with fried pickles in the state. Fried Coke gets a pass as does the deep-fried burger between two donuts--even they have some limits. He introduces Castiel to Frito pie and frozen custard which leads to Dean promising to get out his old ice cream churn in the summer so they can make their own. There are enchiladas and fried mac and cheese balls and bricks of fudge and an entire tent of cheese that they mark to visit on another day--it's a good thing the festival runs for three days.

 

They walk through the sheep and swine exhibit, get stuck in the chicken house for way too long. Dean has to convince Castiel that as adorable as the Silkies are, he doesn't really have the backyard for chickens, or the time. Castiel pouts until one of the young bull calves pushes his velvet nose into Castiel's palm, snuffling wetly.  Still young enough to be all legs, it leans against the fence and into Castiel's touch. The farmer comes over and lets them into the enclosure to meet the mother and some of the other heifers. Eyes wide and soft, they let the two men run their hands down their flanks, sniffing them with approval. The calf curls up in the corner, deep in the hay. Straw sticks to their jeans for the rest of their night, but it's worth it to Dean to have seen the look of pure wonder on Castiel's face.

 

The canning exhibit is slightly less exciting, though they get samples of the cucumbers and watermelon rinds and spicy green beans. Mrs. Harris makes them split one of her scones with her famous strawberry jam and they thank her through the crumbs. Five dollars gets them each a ticket to the pie contest where they can taste each of the entries and vote for their top three. Even though he's so full it actually hurts, Castiel gladly spends most of an hour there, mostly watching Dean. He tries a few of the pies and votes for the maple-pecan and a mixed berry with a sugar crust and stars across the top. Stuck between the last seven, Dean sits down with a plate and methodically takes small bites of each, working his way around the plate. His eyes flutter closed with each bite, weighing his decision like the fate of the world hangs on it, before muttering to himself and moving on. Watching him, Castiel lets desire pool in his belly. The man is objectively beautiful, but Castiel loves him best like this, focused and quiet, letting small pleasures overwhelm him. Outside of food, he's only ever like this in bed. He finds himself jealous of the pie at the moment, as ridiculous as it is, wanting to keep that look between just the two of them, not for the consumption of the older women behind the tables who keep looking sideways at the two of them.

 

Leaning over abruptly, he catches Dean's lips in a kiss, licking away the last crumbs from the bite of pie he'd taken, pressing in hungrily to deepen the kiss. He tastes sweet and vaguely like cherries and chocolate on top of the taste of _Dean_ and Castiel wants to wipe them away. Instead he pulls back, gentling the kiss until it's a chaste press of lips, careful not to upset the plate of pie still between them. Dean is dazed and it's all Castiel can do to say "I like the way that one tastes" and not drag him home immediately. When he looks back, the women are pointedly looking away from them except for one who winks and gives him a thumbs up. He grins back. Later Dean can't remember which pies he voted for.

 

The Midway is an exercise in frustration for Dean. He tries to win Castiel something, tries to show off his pitching skills, completely embarrassing himself in front of a stack of milk bottles. Castiel steps up and cleanly knocks them down, presenting Dean with a really dumb bear he's never going to admit he loves. After failing to win at the water gun, the basketball toss, and even at winning a goldfish at the bottle toss, he finds the duck hunt. Cackling, he sets the bear and the turtle and the cow in a frog outfit (he doesn't ask, it's better than the rastafarian banana) that Castiel had won on the stool next to him and clips off the required five shots to win Castiel an obnoxiously large Scooby-Doo. They look ridiculous walking down the rest of the Midway, arms full of stuffed animals. Kids stop them to ask about the Scooby-Doo and Dean hands one wailing child  the cow-frog and won't shut up all the way to the car about the way she screamed and pressed a grubby kiss to his face.

 

They shove the prizes into the backseat, the Scooby-Doo barely fitting back there and head over to watch dusk rise from the top of the ferris wheel. Music wafts up from the nearby games, the shouts of the barkers blending in with the murmurs of the crowd. Children shriek from the big swing ride and chase each other through the crowds with their fists full of tickets. Young couples wander, arms around each other, slow and simple. The seat isn't really big enough for them, their feet perched on the edge of the footrest, pressed close together. Their hands find each other, winding close. They pause at the top, watching the crowd move, the lights flicker below, the way the stars spread out like a blanket above them, miles of land on all sides draped in the soft fall evening. Castiel leans over and kisses him, tasting like corn dogs and lemonade, undemanding and perfect.

 

The ride home is quiet, the fair lights fading behind them. While the rest of the town watches fireworks, all they can see is the places they fit together, sliding against one another, the only explosions their names against each other's skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never apologize for going overboard with food. Major, this is for you.


	17. Chapter 17

It's become a thing for them to read in bed before they head to sleep. Castiel has a stack of books on his nightstand that he works through in some pattern only he understands--it makes Dean smile that the creased copy of de Montaigne made an appearance a few days ago. The cover on his battered Nook creaks when he opens it, but Dean likes that he can catch up on his journals or the newest editions on Comixology. That it means that Castiel can't see what Dean reads is something he shies away from. He tells Castiel about reading _Wordy Shipmates_ instead of the findings on the latest biofuels because he really liked that book,ok? It had led to a far deeper conversation about literature and its social use than Dean had anticipated, but he liked it, debating ideas with Castiel. Despite his further schooling, Castiel always considered Dean's opinion on equal weight to his own and never talked down to him. He's even started asking Dean's opinion on some of his student's papers, leading to some fascinating discussions about academic tone and structure and how it can stifle true learning.

 

It's one of those nights, each of them wrapped up in their own books when Dean realizes they've been dating for months and neither of them has said "I love you." With Cassie and Lisa, those words had come fairly quickly, from them, and seemed to be a requirement for continuing the relationship. He'd always hedged with a "you too" or a cocky "I know", playing the charming rogue card. He'd loved them both, he really had, but he'd never been compelled to say it. And, though they'd dated much longer and even lived together, what he'd had with Lisa wasn't even close to where he and Castiel are. He'd loved her, he had, but he'd always felt like he was trying to play a miscast part, like he was always three steps behind. From Dad to Sam to Lisa, he was always disappointing them and trying to do better, be better. But with Castiel he's never felt like anyone but himself.

 

They argue, sure, but it's always been about how to work better together, never about how one of them isn't living up to an unreachable standard. For whatever reason, the brilliant, beautiful man with a terrible case of bedhead laying next to him likes him the way he is. And that's just _baffling_ , because he's a fucking mess. But he'd do anything for the man beside him. He might be mostly-hopeless in the kitchen and get distracted by his work and disappear for a week and be shit at doing laundry, but he's got the biggest heart of anyone Dean has ever met, is dedicated and loyal to those he cares about, is driven and passionate. Dean's chest fills with warmth and it almost feels like the part of Christmas when the presents are done and everyone is flushed with just _being_ together. His brain and his mouth realize it together.

 

"I love you."

There it is. Oh, and Dean wants to take it back immediately, but he can't say he didn't mean it even if his breath catches when Castiel just hums in response.

"What?" Dean asks.

"I know." Castiel says.

 

Dumbfounded, Dean just looks at Castiel until the other man looks back at him.

"Oh." Castiel breathes, "You didn't know."

Dean's heart rate increases with every second they stare at each other, Castiel's eyes kind.

 

"Dean," he says softly, "I sat through the Lord of the Rings extended editions for you. All of them. Of _course_ , I love you, you idiot."

" _Christ_." Dean deflates and rests his head on Castiel's chest, enjoying the moment as they just breathe together as Castiel threads his fingers through his hair. "You're an asshole,  you know that?"

"That's why you love me," Castiel chirps, because he's an asshole.

"Shut up."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short and overly sweet. I APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING


	18. Chapter 18

As the weather gets colder they spend more weekends inside, sometimes with Sam and Jess, sometimes Jo, Charlie and Ash come over. One weekend, Charlie thunks down a heavy box set of dads on his coffee table. "Stargate," she says. "Shut up and like it." Castiel just nods at her and Dean groans, hauling himself into the kitchen to make enough popcorn for everyone. Everyone turns out to include Sam and Jess as well as the garage crew since Sam's maybe the biggest nerd ever. He's clearly seen this before the way he and Charlie throw insults and jokes that make entirely no sense to anyone else at each other over their respective partner's heads. It might be shit outside with the freezing rain, but in here with his family sprawled over couch ends and chairs and pillows on the floor, Dean thinks it might be the perfect day. Castiel is curled up at his side, his glasses knocked a bit askew, but he's laughing with his brother and Charlie's flipping them off. So, yeah, he might regret the delay in working out the latest equation he and Jo are stuck on, but the warmth in his chest makes his lungs ache in the best way. He'd never asked for this-- never thought he'd be allowed to have this--but he's not letting it go. His arm must tighten around Castiel because the man in question looks up at him and then smiles, kissing his shoulder absently before telling Charlie to shut up he can't hear the dialogue.

 #

 

 

It's on one of the rare mornings at Castiel's place that Dean brings it up. "Is it ok that we hang out with Charlie and Jo and them so much? I mean, I know they're your friends too now, but we don't have to always hang out with them."

Castiel pulls his coffee away from his lips and frowns, "I like spending time with them."

"No, I know. I mean-" Dean rubs his hand across his morning stubble. Conversations before coffee were dumb. He should know this by now. "Do you want us to hang out with your friends more?"

"Oh." Castiel leans back in his chair, clearly surprised. "That would be nice, actually."

He leans over to kiss Dean softly. "Thank you for the idea."

Dean shrugs, feeling guilty, "You got it."

They eat their toast and eggs.

Later, Castiel is peering at the side of a Raisin Bran box and Dean says, "I don't want you to feel like you always have to hang out with us."

Blinking Castiel looks at him, "What?"

"Me and my friends. You can hang out with whoever you want. I don't want you to feel like you have to be around all the time."

"Do you not want me to?" Castiel asks, brow furrowed.

"No, I do. I just." Dean exhales, staring at the cart in front of him. "I just know I-uh, we- can be overwhelming and I want you to be able to see your friends and not think I hate them or don't want you to spend time with other people if they're important with you."

 

His hands tighten on the handle of the shopping cart until firm hands cup his cheeks and tilt his face up. Castiel's is intent in the way he gets when he finds the perfect word for a translation, "I see Balthazar every day at work. We get dinner with Gabe once a month. Anna calls Sunday mornings. I don't care for anyone else in my department and certainly don't want to see them outside of sharing the Xerox machine or in one of those eternal weekly meetings."

 

His eyes gentle, "I like your friends. I like your brother. I've never had-" he squints as the tries to find the words. "I've never had many friends and my family doesn't really 'hang out'. I've never had a family like the one you do and I'm glad you let me be a part of it. If there's a day I don't want to hang out with them, I will tell you. Do you understand?"

Dean nods and Castiel smiles before he's serious once more. "And if you don't want me there, you tell me too. Okay?"

 

He pulls back as Dean straightens abruptly and catches one of his hands. "I always want you around," Dean admits softly. "I never don't want you to be around, but I know that's a lot." His eyes are vulnerable when he looks at Castiel again. "We said we wanted to share more and I just want you to know that if you want me to know your friends and spend time with them, I want that too."

 

_Oh_. Castiel grips Dean's hand tightly, annoyed and relieved that they're in a goddamn cereal aisle so he can't brain his idiot boyfriend with anything more lethal than a family sized box of Honey Nut Cheerios.

 

"That might be nice," he says instead of _I think you and Balthazar might kill each other_ or _I'm an idiot_ or _You are my family how could I want anything else_. Because all of those are true and the idiot man in front of him cares enough to expose his heart in the fucking cereal aisle where Castiel can't put his hands on him and show him how much being asked what he wants means. Instead he kisses Dean, long and slow, without urgency or heat. He tries to put his thanks and his apology into it and ignores the woman gaping at the end of the aisle when they break away.

Dean stares at him until he realizes they have an audience and then coughs, "Uh, so Grape Nuts?"

 #

 

Balthazar makes reservations for them at the French place downtown. It's a nice place, one you'd take dates or family you want to impress, but not nice enough to have a dress code. Dean had grumbled, saying he could just cook for everyone, but Castiel had shushed him with a look. He knew it would be better for everyone if there was an escape plan in the form of a check at the end of the meal. Situated in the heart of Main Street, Le Chein Perdu managed to capture the essence of a small bistro in Paris, but still feel like it belonged wedged between a craft store and the co-op market. It knew exactly what it was: a small restaurant that served a quasi-rural community with cosmopolitan aspirations. Escargot might not be on the menu, but it wooed the local populace with pate and moules frites.

 

"Steak frites?" Dean asks once they're seated at what is apparently Balthazar's "usual" table if the waitress is to be believed, tucked back near the kitchen. "Seems like a cheap way to slap a French name on a steak and fries and charge you ten bucks more than the Roadhouse would." He winces as Cas's shoe finds his shin and coughs. Angling his head to Balthazar he asks, "Anything you suggest?"

"The steak frites," Balthazar smiles icily. "Though, the cassoulet and the salmon are also quite good."

"I've always enjoyed the French Onion Soup," Castiel suggests, head still in his menu.

"Ah, but you did like the veal last time too, didn't you." Balthazar takes a sip of his wine and angles his head towards Castiel in an intimate manner. "You said it was just _delicious_." Castiel hums in agreement without looking up, leaving Balthazar to smirk at Dean whose hands tighten on the menu. Any comment he could have made was silenced before it could be voiced as their waitress addresses the table.

 

"Bon nuit and welcome. May I start you with a drink as you take a look at the menu?"

"Another one of these, _cher_ ," Balthazar says, tipping his glass of wine in her direction. "Meg's already started my tab at the bar."

Nodding she says, "One red. And for you two?"

"A Stella for me," Castiel says.

"Ditto," Dean hastens to add, relieved that something on the menu sounds familiar at least.

 

As the waitress scuttles away to get their drinks, Balthazar leans in. "So, Dean," he says, "Cassie says you work in the garage downtown?"

Dean shoves down the prickle of irritation, "Own it, but yeah, I work there too."

"How quaint." Balthazar smiles with his teeth and takes another sip of his wine.

Castiel's hand covers Dean's where it's gripping his knee and says, "Dean's specialty is classic cars. He's got a special touch."

"Does he now," Balthazar drawls. "Well, he certainly has his hands on your crankshaft, Cassie. But-"

"Balthazar." Castiel snaps.

"Oh, fine." The other man sighs and snaps his menu shut. "Playing nice is tiresome."

 

"That was playing nice?" Dean snorts.

"That was the warm-up." Balthazar taps his fingers on the table. "I had a variety of snide remarks about grease monkeys and wrenches and lifts, but Cassie is no fun. He doesn't like to share his toys."

Sighing, Castiel sets the menu down. "I don't share and he's the one who wanted to meet you, so you could at least be nice."

He locks eyes with Balthazar across the table until the older man drops his eyes and picks up his wine again. Mollified, Castiel asks, "How's the new cohort?"

 

The conversation steered to neutral territory, Balthazar launches into an explanation about how the newest crop of graduate students is worse than the last. After spending so much time with Castiel, there are enough names Dean recognizes to follow the conversation about drama between students and faculty, pausing only to place their order and then eat. When the conversation turns to syllabi for the upcoming semester, Dean cuts in while slicing into his perfectly cooked veal. "Why not offer a choice of topics?" he asks, referring to the upper division translation course Balthazar is creating with a member of the English faculty. "If you're worried about burnout or lack of attention to detail, why not give them a choice of what to work on?"

 

The only reply are blank stares from across the table so he hurries to finish, "Look, if you're trying to give them examples of styles and techniques, it's good to mix it up so they can learn from each other too, right? Not everyone is going to love Moliere or Balzac and maybe a student wants to start looking at the Afro-Caribbean work. So, instead of breaking it down by big name authors, why not create a syllabus on style or technique and give them three or four excerpts to choose from to work on over a few weeks. That way they can work shit they think is cool and they get examples of not only the technique, but how context changes it, or whatever."

 

He shoves the piece of meat that's been dangling from his fork into his mouth, following it with a generous mouthful of beer. Balthazar seems to be frozen still, his only movement a finger tapping the rim of his wine glass. Castiel is looking between the two of them, amused, and Dean hurriedly shoves another piece of veal in his mouth, mumbling, "Just saying."

"That's," Balthazar pauses for a minute like it pains him, "Annoying brilliant. Thank you."

"Any time," Dean says.

"Another beer?" the waitress asks, appearing from nowhere at his elbow.

"God, yes." Dean doesn't have to look at Balthazar to know he's making a face, but he can't bring himself to care.

 

The rest of dinner goes fine after that. Balthazar makes a few snide comments in Dean's direction, but Dean mostly ignores them in favor of watching Castiel. There's a special kind of intensity around him when he speaks with his colleague that Dean hasn't seen before. He's magnetic and Dean can only imagine what it's like to see him in front of a class. Balthazar has his charm too, for all he's an ass, and it's easy to see how the two of them work well together: one brash and bawdy, the other intense and snarky. They're clearly passionate about their work and he'd never admit it to his face, but Dean's increasingly glad that Castiel has Balthazar on his side. From the stories they're telling now about their colleagues, Castiel could use someone willing to bite back at the harpies in the department. He's quiet for most of the rest of the meal, preferring to listen. As the conversation winds down over the dregs of their drinks, he takes Castiel's hand in his under the table. His boyfriend turns to smile at him and says, "We should get going."

Balthazar checks his wrist and sighs theatrically, "Ah, yes. Must pay the piper in the morning, mustn't you."

Castiel nods and Balthazar waves for the check.

 

A different woman saunters over, the one from behind the small bar, a smirk on her face. "Hi, Clarence," she purrs at Castiel. "Heya, B."  She nods at Balthazar, setting the check down, but leaving her hand on top of it. "Long time no see. Thought you'd forgotten about little old me." Her grin is brittle and dark and Dean stiffens. Castiel grips his hand and says, "Hi Meg. It's good to see you. This is my boyfriend, Dean. Dean, this is Meg. She and Ruby own this place."

 

"Heya," Dean salutes her with a finger touched to his forehead and Castiel leans even closer to him.

 

"Anyway," Meg says, ignoring the introduction, "don't be strangers." With that she sashays back to her bar, snapping at their waitress. There's a brief jostle for the check before three cards are shoved into the booklet for the waitress to deal with. She doesn't say anything, just picks it up and hastens back with their receipts to sign. Whatever Meg had said to her had tamped down what little chattiness she'd shown. Bundling up in their coats, they made their way to the door, Balthazar waving to Meg before setting a hat on his head and shoving them all out the door.

 

"Well, that was a treat," he says when it becomes apparent they're parked on opposite sides of the block.

"Thank you for having dinner with us," Castiel says, elbowing Dean.

"Ow, uh, yeah, it was good to actually meet you," Dean says dutifully, sticking out his hand. Balthazar shakes it before gathering Castiel into a hug and saying, "Take care, Cassie," before heading off to his car.

 

The two men watch his retreating back. When he's halfway down the block they turn and head towards their own car. The drive is silent on the way back, as if Castiel knows Dean needs to process the last hour and change before engaging in anything resembling conversation. It's not until they're tucked under the blankets Castiel insists on piling on top of the comforter that he says, "He's kind of a dick."

Grinning into the darkness Castiel replies, "He is. A very talented dick." After a beat he continues softly, "Who has been a very good friend to me."

Dean sighs, stretching out to lace their fingers together in the space between them, "I know. I'm glad you have him, because if he's your friend in the department, the rest of them must be a bag of dicks."

"A giant one," Castiel agrees. "Thanks for coming tonight."

"No problem. Sorry for maybe being a dick."

"It's his primary language." Castiel turns and scoots closer to throw his arm across Dean's stomach. "And your suggestion was kind of brilliant. I think it went well."

Dean snorts and lowers his arm from above his head to rest over Castiel's, "If you say so."

 

"I didn't expect you to be friends," Castiel admits. "Honestly, I'd expected a few more fireworks.  You're both, ah. I'll go with protective and stubborn." Squeezing Dean's side he continues, "But I'm glad you got to meet him, that you wanted to."

He feels Dean shrug and Castiel tightens his grip on his waist, "Seriously. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Dean says quietly and Castiel knows enough by now to know those words mean far more than what they say.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

A few Wednesdays later finds Dean once again elbow deep in their latest set of plans. Jo's at class again since the upper level classes meet in the evenings, which means it's just him and Ash in the garage. For once it's fairly quiet, the clacking of Ash's keyboard breaking rhythmically through the Bach sonatas he'd chosen for the evening. Though he'd never admit it, Dean does some of his best work when Ash chooses one of his (apparently many and varied) classical CD's. Hard rock and heavy metal are best when he's building, but when it comes to the hard work, balancing equations and variables, Bach or Brahms hit the spot. There's something about the flow of the pieces that help the work come more easily, pushes him to work along with the steady rhythm, keeps him focused on the patterns and cadence of the work he loves, consumes him. Which is why he's startled by the cough from Ash's corner snapping him back to focus on the room, where apparently the music has stopped. Eyebrow raised, he looks over at the other man, who pushes back from his desk and comes to sit on the edge of the table Dean uses as his workspace.

"Beer?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head, "Nah, not until after. You know that."

"Would make this easier," Ash says.

 

Peering at his friend, Dean leans forward and licks his lips nervously, "Make what easier."

"Ok, first you have to know that I'm only doing this because Charlie and Jo cheat and know I can't throw paper. Also, you have to get your head out of your ass."

"Uh, what?" Affronted, Dean leans back in his chair.

 

"Listen, we like Cas. He's a weird dude, don't get me wrong, but he knows his shit, man. I didn't even know some of the shit he was talking about at lunch the other day. He's fucking quick and, like, pretty good with the whole car thing for an academic."

"You trying to steal my boyfriend, man?" Dean jokes, ignoring the tight fist of dread clamping on his insides.

"I'm trying to tell you that it would suck to lose him."

"You know something I don't?"

"No, man. But. Listen, Charlie started hanging out here like a month after she and Jo finally got together. Now she's one of the team and we'd be shit without her."

Dean snorts, but it's not like it's not true. She'd sat down with Ash for like 36 hours straight streamlining their code within her first week in the workshop.

"You trying to get me to date Charlie? Because I don't think I'm really her type, and I like my guts where they are," he says, desperate for Ash to just stop.

"He isn't Lisa."

 

Dean sucks in a harsh breath and Ash grimaces. It's a sore point and they both know it. After the disaster that was Cassie, Lisa had been a breath of fresh air. A pretty single mom, she hadn't asked for much more than some of his time. They'd met at a bar and gone home together and then kept seeing each other until Dean moved in six months later. About that time was when the workshop started taking off, requiring Dean to spend more and more late nights at the garage. He'd tried to be home more--make more nightly dinners, help Ben with his homework and with bath duty, do the whole nighttime dance that couples do--but the workshop was constantly on his mind. It became the focus of their increased fights, the number of nights he was away, which is when Dean instituted Wednesdays as the late nights as a measure of compromise. Then, when Bobby got sick and he had to take over more of the administrative tasks at the garage, he was back to long days again. Most nights he'd head home for dinner and helping get Ben to bed, but then either would head back to the garage to finish up, or spend another few hours with paperwork across the kitchen table.

 

It caught up to them, their meager compromises. The last big fight was loud and ugly, accusations thrown from both sides. Dean wasn't trying, was never home, hadn't touched her in weeks, was a ghost in the house more than the man who had left her and Ben behind. Dean took her shots and held them close to his heart, knowing more than she ever could the type of man his father had raised, who he'd tried to not become and had clearly failed. When he'd protested that she didn't see he was trying, that he made it to dinners and baseball games, but that the garage was his job and the workshop something he loved, she'd laughed. Laughed and asked when he was going to grow up and get a real job, understand that his nights at the workshop were just toys and he should be focusing on managing the shop, getting his life together and growing up. Silence fell between them like stones.

 

He'd grabbed a few things and knocked on Charlie's door at 2am. She and Jo had answered and ushered him in without a word, feeding him tea and tucking him into the blankets on their couch for the night. They'd packed his stuff while he and Lisa sat across the kitchen table for the last time over cooling mugs of coffee. "I'm sorry," they'd both said.  "I shouldn't have said that about the garage," she'd admitted, her eyes soft with tears. "But I need someone who can be here. For me and for Ben."

 

"You deserve that." He'd said. "And I'm sorry I couldn't. I tried."

"I know."

 

They'd left it at that and woken up Ben for breakfast and one of the hardest conversations of Dean's life. He'd taken it hard, the poor kid. Sobbed and apologized like it was his fault until Dean knelt down next to him and wrapped him in a hug. Sometimes adults just don't work out, he'd said. It's not that they don't love each other or love you, but that it's better for everyone if they live apart. He'd promised to keep coming to games and that they'd spend time together, silently begging permission over the head buried in his chest. Lisa had nodded and Ben had asked, "Promise?" in a voice that still ripped at his insides. He'd promised. And he'd made good on it too until Mark entered their lives, filling the spaces Dean could never reach until Dean wasn't needed any more. It was a natural progression, Dean making sure that Ben always knew it wasn't about him, wasn't his fault, but the tenuous relationship had fallen apart when the Braeden-Lewis family of three moved to Colorado for Mark's new job. It still ached, the hole in his chest for the boy he'd taught to play catch, the kid who looked at him like he could do anything, be anything.

 

And he'd failed him. He'd failed them both and his project still hadn't gotten off the ground three years later. And it stung that throughout the year they'd been together, Lisa had apparently looked down on one of the things Dean held to his core. Working in the shop, on cars, being a mechanic like his dad. It's what he's good at, what he's best for. The rest of it, workshop included, isn't something he can bear to really dream about making as real as the grease under his nails. If he clutches at it too hard, too desperately, it'll crumble in his hands. And he can't take that kind of rejection again. Cas isn't Lisa, he knows that. He knows Lisa probably didn't think his work was shit, but she'd said it out loud so there must have been some sliver of truth. And if Cas means exponentially more than her, the effects of his reaction would be that much more profound. He might not recover.

 

Not that he doesn't want to tell Cas because _Jesus Christ_ does he ever. It's been on his tongue so many times, but there are people there or he chickens out or they're already in bed and Cas is making the noises he does once he's comfortable and almost asleep. He's a coward, he knows this.

 

"Then why not tell him?"

Dean grips the edge of his table like it’s the only thing that makes sense in the room, "I don't know."

"Then fucking figure it out, dude. He's been pretty cool about it so far and maybe I'm wrong. But I know you and I know how this has played out before for you."

Sighing, Ash looks at Dean who refuses to look up at him. "I just want you happy, man. I like him, but I like you with him. I've never seen you this happy and it's fucking weird, but it's good. So figure your shit out."

 

With that, he reaches over to snap his laptop shut, grabs his bag and walks out of the room. Dean doesn't look up once.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Holiday Chapter

Thanksgiving turns out to be a full family affair. Jess's parents are in Aruba, enjoying their retirement, so she and Sam don't have to haul out to Minnesota for the first time since they started dating and Cas doesn't do family holidays. So, of course, Dean offers to host. He's happy to let Jess take over a few of the sides like green bean casserole and one of the pies, but is adamant about being in charge of the turkey and everything else. Until he gets a phone call from a pouting Charlie, that is. She and Jo promise to bring a "not-hippie" salad, home made rolls and one of Ellen's pies. Charlie not -so-subtly suggests the idea of potatoes au gratin instead of mashed and promptly gets the phone hung up on her. No one messes with Dean's potatoes. There will be butter and milk and no lumps and rivers of gravy, or there will be no Thanksgiving, dammit.

 

It's not so surprising that Dean is out on the back patio the Monday before the holiday, swearing at a pile of metal when Cas arrives with a pizza. It's his night to cook and he's taken it seriously until now, dutifully making a shopping list and keeping an eye on the spices in the pantry, but a few students had stayed after lecture to talk about the upcoming paper, eating up the time the simmering time for the stew. The house will be full of food in the next few days, anyway. No need to fill up the little Tupperware Dean has stashed in a back cupboard prematurely. He makes a note to stop by Target between classes tomorrow to grab some more containers so everyone can take some home. The number of pies increases with every text message Dean sends--Cas stopped reading the recipes after five. He's only buying two crusts and Dean will deal. Unless there's a sale on crust and then what can he do? He's got a boyfriend who loves pie.

 

Which brings him to where he is now, smiling indulgently as Dean presses his thumb between his lips and glares at what looks like a pulley device dangling between the legs of his beat up aluminum ladder.

"Planning to give a 'toon the Dip, Doc?" Cas calls out, grinning as Dean jerks his head up.

"Does that make you my goon? You don't look like a weasel." Bushing his hands on his jeans, Dean folds out of the squat with only a slight popping of the knees. "I see we went gourmet tonight."

Cas gestures with his free hand towards the box, "Only the best from Maria. Come on, it's getting cold."

The pizza is good, better with the last bottles of beer from the back of the fridge.

"So what's all that out there?" Cas asks, wiping grease off his fingers.

"It's a fryer" Dean says, shoving half a crust into his mouth.

"Hate to tell you, but I think you're missing a few pieces."

 

"Shut up." Dean says around the food, taking a swig of beer to wash it down. "Benny's bringing the fryer by tomorrow, but I wanted to get the rig started. Good Eats approved."

The satisfied smile looks good on him, but Cas can't help but be amused by how quickly Dean latched on to the Alton Brown series that marathoned the previous weekend.

"So, we're frying the turkey."

"We're frying the turkey."

#

 

Thursday comes to three pies on the countertop--apple, pecan, and maple chess-- (because Cas just couldn't say no and crust was in fact on sale) and the turkey brining in a bucket in the pantry. No one is expected until about three, but Cas is up early. He makes coffee in the old electric percolator Dean insists makes the best coffee he's ever had, better than "that hipster place downtown" who does fresh pour overs and small batch roasting. While Cas appreciates a perfectly balanced cappuccino, he has to admit that the old thing cranks out a damn good cup of coffee. Especially since Cas has started buying beans from "that hipster place". While the coffee bubbles, he grabs a few things from the fridge--butter, milk, salmon, eggs, and scallions. A croissant is cut in half and thrown into the toaster oven, just to warm. He cracks a few eggs into a bowl and breaks them up for a minute before pouring them into the pot on the stove, adding a small knob of butter and turning the flame on low. Stirring carefully, he lets the butter meld with the eggs, pulling the pan off the fire when they start to set. He does this a few times, taking the pan on and off the fire, stirring constantly, until the eggs are soft, fluffy curds, before adding a splash of milk and one small pat of butter. Once those are incorporated, he pulls the eggs off the fire for the last time, folding in the chopped scallions. Hissing as he pulls the hot croissants out of the toaster and on to the plates, he portions the eggs out over each half then layers slices of the smoked salmon on top. Coffee goes into Dean's favorite mug with a splash of milk, forks tucked into the pocket of his pajama pants, and Cas loads up his arms to head up the stairs, thankful for his time waitressing. Dean's still asleep when he pads back into the room, now sprawled across the entire bed with his face smashed into Cas's pillow. He sets the coffee cups down on Dean's nightstand, freeing up his hands to get the warm plates down to rest on the other side.

 

He pauses for a minute, taking in the sight of Dean in the cool autumn light, his bare shoulders bronze against the gray sheets. They'll lose their color over the winter, letting the freckles stand out against paling skin, kept wrapped away from the wind. He gets to have this, he realizes, his breath fluttering in the back of his throat. He gets to have these mornings of early coffee in a kitchen that knows him, he gets to watch the sun wash from his lover's skin and press his fingers against it. Instead of leaning down to shake him awake, Cas slides in to fold his body around the curve of Dean's back, pressing his lips against his neck. Dean hums and arches back, letting Cas slip a hand across his belly.  "Dean," Cas says, voice gravely and soft, "wake up."

 

"'s Sam here yet?" Dean mumbles, mouth sleep lax and heavy.

"No, but there's breakfast." Cas says into the curve of his shoulder and Dean groans happily, pressing back into Cas's chest.

"Now?" he asks.

"Unless you want cold eggs." Cas says, pulling away to sit up against the headboard and grab a mug of coffee.

"Nnngh," Dean blinks his eyes open and rolls over, his face at Cas's hip, a sleepy smile easing over his face. "You made me coffee."

"Mmm," Cas says, taking a sip of his.

Dean shoves himself up, covers bunched around his waist, shoulder presses against Cas' and reaches over to take the mug. "And fancy eggs." He says, catching sight of the plates. "'What is this, a holiday?"

 

Wordlessly, Cas passes Dean a plate before taking his own. The eggs are already slightly cold, but their creamy texture against the salmon and the crisp croissant are perfect. They don't get mornings like this very often, not with Dean running the shop and his own nine am seminar. It's nice, though, waking up slowly together. Even though it's a holiday, it's still a weekday and it feels like borrowed time. Like a glimpse into something he could have. He can see Dean pulling his shirts on in the morning before dropping a cup of coffee and a kiss on his way out to open the shop at seven, can see himself returning home from lectures to set his shoes next to Dean's scuffed boots. He takes a sip of coffee to wash away the lump in his throat before turning back to the eggs. Neither one of them is vocal in the morning, their earlier conversation withstanding, and they finish in a warm silence, Dean stacking the empty plates together on his nightstand before leaning over to press a soft kiss to Cas's lips. "Thank you for breakfast."

 

Cas looks into his eyes, the contentment within them soothing his twisting belly, "You're welcome."

 

There's more to do before everyone arrives than Cas could have imagined. Holiday dinners with his family were formal--handled by his mother and staff hired for the evening, full of specific silverware and starched linens. Jo and Charlie are bringing by extra chairs to add to the dining table in the kitchen so they can seat everyone plus maybe Ash and the only table cloth they have is a slightly stained one in the closet that was Dean's mother's. There won't be any china or pressed napkins--paper are just fine--but there's still a lot to be done. Dean's checked the forecast seven times since they got back down to the kitchen to make sure it'll be clear to get the fryer going. They have six gallons of peanut oil (Thank god for Costco) and the fryer Benny brought over came with its own basket. There's just the matter of the potatoes, gravy, stewed tomatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce and deviled eggs to make. The stewed tomatoes hit the stove first as they can simmer most of the day and only be the better for it and Dean sets Cas to tearing bread for the stuffing while he gets the eggs going. They've opted for the canned cranberry sauce, both jelly and not, because it's easier--those will get scooped into bowls when everyone arrives. They walk through getting the stuffing ready, leaning on the side to more sausage (of course) and start prepping the gravy. Since the turkey is being fried there won't be any drippings, so set the giblets and neck on the stove to make a stock for the gravy base instead.

 

And then there's the cleaning. As a bachelor, Dean doesn't keep the world's cleanest house and everyone knows it. It's not dirty, just not "company ready" as Cas's mother would put it. They spend an hour picking up the front room and vacuuming the entire living space on the first floor. They wipe down the bathroom counters and Cas finds a decorative towel that Jess and Sam brought back from some vacation to put next to the sink next to the new bar of hand soap. While he's beating the rug out on the back patio, downwind from the frying mechanism, Dean comes up behind him to slide his arms around his waist.

 

"I can't hit things when you do that." Cas says.

"Kinky," Dean leers, pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw.

Cas shifts to smirk over his shoulder, "I can show you just how later."

Grinning, Dean leans back and says, "Just wanted to let you know Sam and Jess are on their way. Got bored waiting, I guess."

"Do you need any help inside?"

"Nah, I got it. Show that rug who's boss."

The door slams behind him and Cas just looks at the rug and shrugs as if to say, "I'm in love with an idiot" before shaking out the last of the dirt.

 

Turns out everyone was on their way over because the kitchen is full of people just before three.  Kickoff for the game isn't until 4:30, so there's literally nothing to do but put everyone to work. Charlie irons the tablecloth and Jo "helps" getting a spurt of steam on her arm for her efforts. Sam and Jess wash the dishes by hand even against Dean's protests- "They're not yearly china, Sammy. We ran the dishwasher Tuesday." Cas shepherds Dean outside to get the oil going for the turkey, handing him a pumpkin beer. "You get one before that turkey's done," he warns. "Alton said."  Dean grumbles, but they've seen enough of the PSA's on TV about the dangers of deep-frying to chance handling the system while even tipsy. The oil warms up and the turkey is lowered in with minimal fuss and splatter. They set the clock for forty-five minutes, throw the potatoes on to boil, and join everyone in the front room.

 

Anyone will tell you that the last ten minutes before a big meal are the most stressful and this one is no different. Dean shoves the bowl of half-mashed potatoes at Cas before running outside to save the turkey. It turns out beautiful and golden, but takes Jo, Sam and Dean to lift it out of the pot and onto the platter to bring inside. Cas makes one last pass with the hand mixer on the potatoes before plopping a serving spoon into the bowl, setting it down on the table next to the jug of gravy. After letting the turkey rest for a handful of minutes, Dean heads back into the kitchen to slice the turkey, but stops short at the sight of the metal mixing bowl on the table. "What the hell, Cas?"

 

"What's wrong?" Cas says, poking his head back into the kitchen.

Dean gestures at the potatoes, "What is that?"

"Mashed potatoes," Cas answers slowly.

"No shit, Sherlock. Why are they in that bowl?"

"Because that's what they were in when you handed them to me?"

"It's a mixing bowl, not a serving bowl! It doesn't look nice with all that." Dean gestures wildly to the table where the dishes are arrayed in a variety of containers, including a disposable foil pan.

 

"I figured it would be fine and one less bowl to wash later. I don't think it matters. None of the serving dishes match." Cas says reasonably, heading towards the table.

"I just," Dean starts, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling loudly, "I just want it to be perfect."

Looking down at the overflowing table filled with food in the way a man who uses it to show he cares only can, Cas nods and says "Did you want to use the blue one?"

Dean shakes his head, "No, you're right. It's dumb. But I just want-"

"It to be perfect." Cas finishes for him, sliding an arm around his waist and pressing a kiss to his temple. "And it will be."

They stand there for a minute, just breathing, until Sam yells from the other room, "It had better still be sanitary in there!"

Chuckling, Cas squeezes Dean's hip before yelling back, "Cleaner than that couch." A muffled yelp and cackling laughter echoes in from the front room.

#

 

For a meal that took so much planning, it's finished in less than thirty minutes.  It's good, though, having everyone crowded around the table on borrowed chairs, knocking elbows and passing wine. Jo's already flushed, with a few drinks and ribbing from Sam and Dean about childhood exploits, Charlie clutching her arm to keep upright from laughing. Sam's pushed himself back from the table and unbuckled his belt, soft in the way he only ever is after a full meal, Jess absently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Cas is pressed against Dean, a warm line up the length of his side. He's telling Jess about the kids in his graduate seminar, his gestures more pronounced with every sip of wine and Dean can't take his eyes of his damn hands. They're gorgeous and Dean knows what they're like pressed against his skin, knows the strength of them, how safe he is between them. _Christ,_ those things should be illegal. He tears his eyes away to see Jo and Charlie grinning at him from across the table, Jo making kissy faces at him--apparently he's been silent just a bit too long. Clearing his throat, he says  "Dessert?"

 

A chorus of groans rises from the table and Sam might turn just the tiniest bit green.  Taking that as a cue, he starts piling up dishes, waving off offers to help. Jess follows him into the kitchen, laden with about half the serving dishes. She sets them on the counter and grabs the top plate, scraping food into the trashcan before setting it in the sink. Waiting until Dean grabs a plate and starts scraping she asks, "So, when is Cas moving in?" Dean freezes mid-scrape and she laughs. "Oh, come on. Like he isn't over here all the time anyway. I saw how you move together in here earlier--the only other person you're like that with is Sam when you pack a car." Watching his bowed head she sighs, "I just want you to be happy, Dean. _We're_ happy you're happy."  Picking up another plate she shoves him with her shoulder, "It's ok to want that, you know."

 

Dean nods and finishes the plate, grabbing another before saying, slowly, "We haven't talked about it yet." He has to clear his throat to speak through the rush of _want_ that tightens his guts, because the fuck if that isn't exactly what he wants. To wake up next to Cas every day and give him shit about how he organizes his shirts, to just have him _here_. Jess just nods and says "But it's what you want?"

 

He's saved from asking as someone coughs in the doorway. They both swing around to find Cas, holding the rest of the dishes from the table. Jess has the decency to blush as Cas just looks at the cabinet between them and asks, "So, just there?" gesturing to the counter. They rush forward to help him unload and he murmurs thanks before slipping from the kitchen, leaving Dean to stare behind him. He shrugs off Jess's apologetic hand on his shoulder--he needs a beer for this.

#

 

The game is a wreck, not that anyone really pays attention to it. After the first quarter Ash drops by and they break into the pies for round two of gluttony. They pack away an obscene amount of pie, but Dean squirrels away a few extra slices of the pumpkin and pecan for the next morning, smacking Sam with his fork when he tries to steal a bite of one of them. "You have an entire extra apple pie at your house. Leave off my leftovers." Contrite, Sam shrugs and steals a bite from the plate Jo had abandoned instead, ignoring her sleepy protests from where she's curled up around Charlie in the recliner. They make it through the half-time show before giving up on the game entirely. In the kitchen, they divvy up what little leftovers are left between them. Somehow Ash, who wasn't even there for dinner, ends up with the largest container, nearly overflowing with gravy. "Payment for not making the stuffing this year," he says before scooting out the back door, leaving Dean and Jo to explain the catastrophe of Ash's cornbread stuffing a few years back. He reminds them of it every holiday to get out of cooking which is just better for everyone, really.

 

Soon enough everyone is packed with leftovers and wrapped in layers and heading out the door in a chorus of _thank you_ 's and _Happy Thanksgiving'_ s, leaving Dean and Cas alone on the porch watching the tail lights disappear around the corner. Shutting the door behind them, Dean collapses on the couch. "Oh, sweet baby Jesus," he says, buying his head in the cushion.

 

"Wrong holiday," Cas quips, smacking the bottom of Dean's shoe. Grumbling, Dean pushes himself up and kicks his shoes off before heading back into the kitchen. They load the dishwasher in silence; Dean sneaks looks at Cas the entire time, noticing the exhaustion around his eyes and says nothing. Dean grabs a beer as Cas takes the middle leaf out of the table, and it's almost like the dinner never happened, except for the full fridge and running dishwasher. He wipes down the counter and turns, nearly running into Cas. "Oh, shi-, sorry," he babbles, gripping his beer tightly. Cas raises his hand in the universal signal for "no foul" and opens his mouth as if to say something before closing it and swallowing hard. Panic rising, Dean blurts out, "Movie?"

 

At Cas's blank look he continues, "Do you want to watch one? It's still early. We could finish _Temple of Doom_ , if you want?"

Peering into Dean's eyes Cas asks, "Are you alright?"

"Super," Dean says and inwardly grimaces. "Why?"

"Because you hate _Temple of Doom_. You wouldn't shut up about it when we tried to watch it last week."

This is true. The movie is the fucking worst. "I don't hate it as much as you hate not completing series."

Cas looks at him for a minute and Dean thinks he can hear the way his heart is trying to escape his chest, can hear the sweat beading at his neck before saying "OK."

#

 

There's less than half the movie left, but they're both mostly asleep by the end of it. Not even the grandiose over-acting or the mine cart chase scene can rouse them. Once the credits start rolling, Dean herds a grumbling Cas up the stairs, pausing only briefly to turn off the TV. They strip silently, Cas folding his jeans and shirt like he usually does, Dean throwing his across the room where the laundry basket probably is. Unlike most nights, though, Cas keeps his undershirt on with his boxers, pausing slightly before sliding into bed. He curls up, facing away from Dean, as Dean slips on his thinned flannel pants he's had for years, keeping his shirt on as well. Which is weird. As soon as Dean clicks off his light and settles into his pillow Cas says, "Thank you. For today."

 

"Um. Of course, man. I'm glad you were here."

"I know it's usually a family thing, so, right.  Thank you."

Dean stares at the ceiling, taking a few deep breaths before saying, "It wouldn't have been the same without you." _Nothing would be_ , he thinks.

 

Cas doesn't say anything and it's a long time before Dean hears his breath even out, still with his back turned to him. Only then does he let out a shuddering breath, let one tear fall. At least they had one holiday. He should have known it'd be too much, he'd be too much. He always is. He always pushes too hard, wants just a little more than they can give. But this sucks more than he could've thought. He counts Cas's breaths and falls into fitful dreams of burned turkey and ash.

#

 

The other side of the bed is empty when Dean wakes the next morning, more exhausted than he'd been the night before. The sheets are cold and he fists his hand in them, willing the lump in his throat to go away. It's better this happens now, before he'd said anything. Better that they do it this way, fall apart gracefully, extricating themselves from each other as easily as getting out from under the covers. He tells himself this as he pulls a gigantic hoodie from the back of his closet, letting it consume him. He'd bought it at the Goodwill downtown when he was sixteen, not too long before things started to get bad with his Dad, just after Cassie. Sam calls it his wallowing hoodie and he's not wrong. But it's cold this morning and the hoodie is warm and he's going to wallow and eat pie for breakfast.

 

He stops short at the sight in his kitchen. Cas is bent over the stove poking at what might be bacon, his hair a riotous mess and clad only in boxers, a t-shirt and mismatched socks. Grabbing onto the door frame until he can breathe again Dean watches Cas swear at the oven before he finds himself wrapping his arms around Cas's waist, dropping his head to rest in the crook of his neck. "I like you here." The words are out of his mouth before he can think. Cas doesn't even blink, just hums and flips the already burned piece of bacon. "I like you here," Dean repeats. "In my kitchen. In my house. Around. Like, all the time. Even if you burn bacon."

 

Cas turns off the flame and turns around in his arms, completely abandoning the bacon, looking him steadily in the eyes. Continuing, Dean says "I like that you throw out the OJ when it has too much pulp and it's close to campus so you'll save on gas. And we could put a desk in the guest room if we need to-."

 

The hand over Dean's mouth stops him mid-sentence. "Dean," Cas says, eyes sparkling. Dean forgets language as Cas replaces his hand with his lips and kisses him softly. "I know your home is important to you. I like being here too, but I don't need-"

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Dean blurts, tension back in his shoulders. "I don't want you to feel--"

"Dean," Cas growls and Dean shuts up. "I have six months left on my lease."

 _Oh_ , Dean blinks at Cas.

"But if we're being honest," Cas continues, "And I hope we are, always. But right now especially.  I'd like to be here too."

Dean's arms tighten around his sides and Cas smiles, giving Dean the courage to rest their foreheads together, "I'd _really_ like that. I just don't want to push."

 

Pulling back, Cas fixes Dean with a stare again, "It's not pushing to ask for what you want. I'd rather you were honest, even if it sucks. But this doesn't suck.  This is pretty great." Then he grins, that adorable gummy grin that is the best thing in Dean's world and kisses him like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I just want to punch Dean, y'know?  
> But, more food porn for Major because she's the best.


	21. Chapter 21

Spring semester is better than fall, if only because the threat of winter is waning. To boost morale, the school always schedules more events as the world thaws, to entice the students out of their caves and layers of sweatshirts and blankets. Hence, the Faculty Gala. One night after dinner, when they're sprawled out on the couch, Cas sits bolt upright. "Shit. I totally forgot." Propping himself up on his elbow,  Dean turns to his boyfriend, brow furrowed. "What's up babe?"

 

Cas flaps his hand, "It's nothing. Well it's something, but it's nothing bad. I just forgot. _Putain_."

Laughing, Dean grabs hand, "Then what is it?"

"It's this thing they do on campus every year. A handful of faculty present their current research, everyone claps and then there's a party and everyone drinks too much."

"And?"

"And they asked me to speak this year"

"Hey, that's awesome, babe. Congrats!"

"Eugh, yeah. Hey, uh..." Cas's hand tightens in Dean's hold. "Do you want to be my date?" He barely let's the question hang before he rushes forward "It's not a big deal if you don't. It's just if you want to, it's not a big deal."

 

Dean tugs on Cas's hand, "Hey. It is a big deal--you get to show everyone how awesome you are. Can't miss that."

The small, pleased smile on Cas's lips just begs to be kissed off and Dean does just that before pulling back and saying, "I might even get lucky with teacher. _Hot_." He waggles his eyebrows. Cas groans and buries his face in Dean's chest.

"I regret this immediately."

"Tough shit. You already invited me. No take-backsies."

Dean runs his fingers through Cas's hair, trying to push it in the opposite direction than it usually springs. They're quiet for a bit, listening to the sound of the air system and the raccoon pilfering the trash next door.  "I'm proud of you, you know." Dean ventures.

Cas tilts his head up and his smile is soft, "I know."

#

 

The gala is on a Thursday because the Dean is a dick and thinks it'll keep the professors from drinking too much good liquor on the school's dime, which is adorable. There are four presentations this year including  a linguist and a stats team who have been working together to map dialects, a woman in the CS department pioneering face recognition software, and a team of biologists cataloging genetic markers for pediatric lymphoma.  Castiel is last and his presentation on transnationalism and its effects in literature and translation is the best received of the night. That could be because the last talk signals the start of the drinking, but it was a great presentation if Castiel says so himself. He's running on a bit of a high, but all he wants is a glass of wine and Dean. It takes a bit to disentangle himself from his colleagues from pretty much every language department who want to congratulate him on the talk and prod him about the finer aspects of his argument that he glossed over. Someone presses a glass of wine into his hand and he finds himself in a discussion with the Provost and he resigns himself to at least ten more minutes of diplomacy. Eventually the Provost shakes his hand and thanks him for "all your fine work" and Castiel is _finally_ free to wind his way through the crowd to Dean.

 

He'd expected him to be tucked in a corner by the refreshments, making piles of cheese and dried fruit. Instead, the man in question is across the room, chatting animatedly with Scott Helms, one of the top researchers in the engineering school. Of course Dean would find the other car nut on the faculty. Scott has a Chevy Vega he loves to death and has managed to somehow keep from falling apart --Castiel suspects witchcraft. They've run into each other a few times in the faculty parking lot, bonding over appreciative nods to each others vehicles, and at a few of these cross-campus events. As the newest glittering stars of their respective departments they're the ones invited to donor dinners to woo wealthy investors and they've formed an easy camaraderie over too many plates of dry chicken and roasted vegetables. So, it's a bit of a surprise that instead of interrupting a conversation about gearboxes and horsepower he stumbles into something else entirely.

 

"So, we had to go back to the electrical and tell him to keep it to our specs or the whole thing would blow." Scott rolls his eyes, "Swear to god we do this every week."

Dean snorts,  "Tell me about it. Our programmer tries to make everything into murder machines. Never boring, that's for sure. If this thing had a text interface, it'd probably just swear at us all the time or make death threats."

Cas sidles closer and Dean slips his arm around his boyfriend's waist.  "Honestly it sounds like you've just got some friction issues. Try a different material for the rod and that should help--we've had some good results with aluminum, actually."

"Huh," Scott considers, "I'll talk to materials and see what they can get us. The lead might bitch since we had to outsource fabrication at the beginning of the project, but if it's that easy a fix he might lay off. Thanks, man."

Dean shrugs, "No worries. Glad to help. Sometimes it's the easy stuff that slips by, right?"

Cas just blinks as Dean and Scott shake hands. "If you have time, you should come by the lab this week, check out our gear. It's a pretty sweet set up." Scott gestures across the lawn, "We're that monstrosity over there. Third floor."

Dean nods, "Sounds good. Wednesdays are our long days, if you want to see the test cycle. We run it until about ten or eleven. Still buggy as hell, but we're getting there."

"Absolutely, man. I'm in the lab most days, and most nights as well," The researcher's shoulders raise in a "whatcha gonna do" gesture , "if you want to see our rigs. We're running a test Tuesday afternoon if you've got time."

Dean hums noncommittally "We've been slammed, but I'll give you a call. Love to get my hands on your calibration system."

Steve laughs and claps Cas on the shoulder " "You'd better watch out. We're going to steal this one from you if you don't keep him close. Good talk tonight. Definitely gave the Big Man what he wanted to hear. Not gonna get you out of any of those dinners anytime soon, though."

He points at Dean,  "And I will see you," Steve continues, "on Wednesday.  Winchester Automotive on Grand?" Dean nods and Steve steps away to intercept one of his increasingly intoxicated colleagues, leaving silence in his wake.

 

"Wednesdays?" Cas raises an eyebrow at Dean.

"We run some tests on Wednesdays that Scott said he might be interested in. I didn't know they were so...practical" Dean frowns into his drink.

"What do you mean?"

"I figured they'd be more theoretical or something up here, you know? Like, discussing the theory of air or how to keep the world from imploding. Not basic friction." Dean scoffs, but his hands keep twisting the cocktail napkin between them.

 

Puzzled, Cas reaches out to still Dean's hand, plucking the shredded napkin from between his fingers. Something about this is wrong--like he's missing a page in a translation.

 

Dean looks up at him and and smiles, "Sorry about that. He's a cool dude, though."  His smile drops at the look on Castiel's face, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder and ask, "Hey. You ok?"

Castiel forces a small smile, "Yes. Just relieved it's over and a bit tired."

Dean nods, "Want a drink?"

"I'd love one." He's desperate for something to occupy his mouth so he doesn't ask Dean questions right here in the middle of all his colleagues. It's enough that they came together, even on a pretty liberal college campus. Zachariah is glowering at them from the other side of the room.

 

Dean hands him another glass of wine and they wander for a bit, chat with a few other faculty members Castiel is friendly with and even briefly with Balthazar. He offers Castiel a quick kiss on both cheeks before he ducks out, even less interested in these sort of gatherings than Castiel.  They  make one last circuit and drop their glasses on a table, Dean's hand warm at the small of Castiel's back. His skin feels too tight with the knowledge that something isn't right, doesn't make sense, almost an itch radiating from where Dean's hand rests. The ride back is quiet and  Castiel can't tell if it's tense or if he's the only one anxious to be away from the windows and leather that try to offer comfort while his brain clicks away. He doesn't invite Dean in, kisses him softly and shuts the door behind him. The house is too quiet without Dean's soft breath behind him, the bed too big, too cold on his skin. But he has to think.

 


	22. Chapter 22

They usually spend Friday nights and Saturdays together, but Cas cries off saying he needs to catch up on work he neglected while preparing for the lecture. Dean replies with a " _Ok. Good luck. Miss you already."_

 

His chest contracts with guilt and affection. Maybe he's being unreasonable and there really isn't anything going on, but his gut says something is. That Dean's constant easy smiles hide whatever that lost look on his face at the Gala was when he stared after Scott. He could just be worrying needlessly, the anxiety in his gut a remnant from his last failed attempt at a relationship. But he has papers to grade and students with anxieties of their own, so he can't be blamed if he doesn't examine his emotions again until they get dragged up again.

 

On Tuesday he's at the architecture cafe again, waiting for Balthazar to get out of his lecture when a shadow looms over the table. "Hey," Scott says. "I'm heading over to Dean's shop tomorrow. You gonna be there?"

"Uh," Castiel says intelligently. "No. I've got a late seminar."

"Ah, ok. Well, I'm looking forward to it. From what he's been saying, the specs for the new prototype look good, enough that they might get to run a field-test soon. Exciting stuff."

 _Prototype_? Bewildered, Castiel nods absently and is saved from having to say anything and betray his ignorance by Balthazar's arrival. Scott pushes off from the table with a friendly wave, leaving Castiel's stomach churning

 

He's quiet through lunch. Balthazar, miraculously, leaves him alone, doesn't comment on how he stabs at the tomatoes and eats the pumpkin seeds he detests and forgot to ask them to leave out. He clears the table and they walk back to the office again, without a word.

 

It's only when he's back in his office, the door clicking shut behind him that he lets out a shuddering breath. Sitting straight in is chair he schools his breathing--deep breath in, deep breath out--while his brain whirls. Wednesdays, of course it's Wednesdays. All those Wednesdays and tired Thursdays and he never knew anything. He's angry and he's hollow and he not sure if he's angrier more at himself or with Dean. Because Dean was hiding this from him, whatever it is, but he should have known. He couldn't have, because Dean never said and why would he have thought anything of it? Bottom line, he should have known, he should have asked. he should have cared more about _whatever it fucking is_ that keeps his boyfriend at work until all hours. Because he fucking loves this man, infuriating as he is. They've only said it a few times and he thought he knew what it meant, the fluttering in his chest, the bone deep contentment of sitting side by side, the checking in every morning and at night. But it's also this hot and twisted thing in his gut, this despair and anger. And it _hurts_. Fuck, it hurts. His breathing hitches, strangled on an exhale and he counts his breaths again. It could be nothing, but the thing of it is that he _doesn't know_. And they'd said they weren't going to do that. _Dean_ had insisted they weren't going to do that. He doesn't have time for this, he thinks fiercely. There's another class to sit through and a meeting with Rachel he's going to cancel and then he's going home.

 

No one in the office says a word when he leaves right after his class, his jaw set. He hangs his coat, takes off his shoes, and places his bag by his front door, like he would any other night. But the double of whiskey he pours isn't like any other night, neither is the way he scowls at the bottle of Dean's preferred brand.  Slumping into the couch, he stares at the blank TV screen until the bell rings. Because it's Tuesday and it's taco night.

 

He takes a breath before opening the door to find Dean standing there holding a bag from Castiel's favorite Mexican place and a six pack of his favorite hard cider and an absurd grin across his face. Saying nothing, he turns around and walks back to the couch, leaving Dean to handle the door and everything by himself. Dean walks carefully into the room and no, he doesn't get to play the injured party here, stiff with worry as if Castiel is the one who has been the asshole here.  Castiel glares at the table even as Dean uncaps a cider for himself, eyeing the half-empty glass of whiskey on the table and setting the bag down. While Dean grabs plates from the kitchen and puts the drinks in the fridge Castiel closes his breathes deeply and unpacks the bag, separating out his chicken soft tacos from Dean's traditional beef and opening the sides of rice and beans.

 

He doesn't look up when he feels the couch dip with Dean's weight. Instead he wordlessly grabs the remote and starts the episode of Parks and Recreation they'd left off watching. The weight of Dean's gaze is heavy and if he wasn't so incensed he'd blush at the attention. His first bite into his taco is vicious, the give of the meat and beans under his teeth satisfying in a primal way. On any other night he'd sit back and enjoy the food, but tonight it's almost tasteless as he eats mechanically, focusing on the wall beyond the TV as the characters banter on the screen. It's not until the empty food containers are stacked back on the table and he's crumpled up the last napkin that he takes a deep breath and says, "So, Steve says you have a new prototype."

 

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean's fingers tighten on his knee before he says, "Oh. Just some sketches for the shop, really."

"No," Cas snaps. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to brush this off and pretend I didn't overhear your conversation with Steve or that someone you met a week ago knows something you've apparently been keeping from me for months."

"It’s not-" Dean begins, not looking at him.

"No," Cas interrupts.

Dean sighs, "It's not what you think."

 

"I don't know what to think," Cas says, finally turning to face Dean who is now looking anywhere but his face. "Considering I didn't know there was anything to _know about_." His voice ends in a hiss and he hates that his words cause Dean to fold into himself, his shoulders slumping. _Good_ , the voice in his head whispers viciously.

When Dean tries again, it's deliberate, his voice even and attempting at aloofness. "It's just this thing Jo, Ash and I have been messing around with. Trying to create a super efficient engine that uses less gas per mile. There's this contest every year and we figured we could mess with it on some of the engines we have at the shop, just to see. It's not a big deal,"

"How long have you been doing this?" Castiel asks, voice even despite acid in his throat.

"...A few years?" Dean ventures, his shoulders tensing up again.

 

"That's not messing around, Dean! Especially if you're at the prototype stage. I'm a language professor and I know that." He laughs and it's a broken sound,  "That's legitimate research, especially if you've been doing this on a schedule for _years_. That's kind of a big deal. It's kind of a big thing for you, especially if you carve time out every week for it."

Silence drops between them and Dean says, "It's not that I didn't want to tell you."

"Then what? You thought it was just something I didn't need to know? That's rich. What happened to 'we're in this together' and 'we need to share our lives' or was that just that you needed to know my life and you get to keep yours apart?" Castiel bites out.

"It's not like that."

"Oh? Because last I checked I've gone out of my way to tell you about my courses, my family, and my colleagues. You've even seen my translations. The ones no one else knows about and that I hadn't looked at in years. And you've said nothing. Just that it's 'late nights at the garage'. Please, tell me how it's not like I haven't given you everything and now it's clear you haven't reciprocated."

"That's not fair." Dean's jaw is set and his voice is soft. "I tell you everything. I just didn't think it was important." The tick at the corner of his jaw belies the statement.

"It's clearly important, Dean.  You have a _prototype_. You're working on revolutionizing automotive technology and have been for years. Do you know how amazing that is?" He looks at Dean full in the face for the first time, his eyes full of awe and disbelief.  "And you've been hiding it in a garage."

 

He knows that's the wrong thing to say when Dean's face immediately shuts down and he visibly bristles as he stands up, placing his drink on the table, "What's wrong with the garage?"

"What? Nothing. It's amazing you've been able to get so much done without a proper lab, though. It can't have been easy."

"What, so just because it's not in a university means it's not proper?" Dean's incensed now and Castiel isn't sure just how the tables turned. "We do just fine. Better, even. But I can see how an academic might think some grubby mechanics can't get the job done with what's available."

"That's not what I meant. I, just, this is amazing work you're doing. But you could be doing something great if you had access to a professional lab."

"So, it's not great because I'm not a professor? Because it's not in a university? Fuck you, Cas. I'm proud of what I do--I own my own business and I get shit done. I didn't have parents to put me through school and I'm not fucking ashamed of what I am."

"That's not what I meant."

"No? Because that's what it sounded like to me. Good job, slumming with the mechanic. That was some nice charity work there, Professor. I hope it was worth it."

The words cut and Castiel can't get breath enough to say a word as Dean storms out the door, leaving the bottle of cider leaking condensation onto the table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh.


	23. Chapter 23

The rest of the week passes as if nothing has happened. And to the world at large, really, nothing has. Students run late to classes, professors consume too much terrible coffee, and papers pile up to be graded. Castiel survives another department meeting thanks to the haze that enrobes him, buffering him from outside forces. He doesn't once speak out against a petty measure brought up by Hester, and she seems almost disappointed. Even Uriel looks down the long table at him worriedly as they file out of the room, as if the white noise in Castiel's brain has seeped down the watermarked wooden slab and started to buzz against his fingers. Balthazar follows him down the hall, but Castiel moves ahead just enough to be able to shut his door behind him in a way that seems deliberate, but not rude.

 

His phone sits quietly on his desk, screen as dark as it's been for the past week. No texts, no calls, no butt dials even. Not that he'd checked all that often. Only a couple times an hour or when he thought he heard the text chime which might be more often than that, but only because students never turn off their phones. He'd only caught himself driving by the garage once, like he usually would Monday at lunch, and forced himself not to look at the cars out front, as if the absence or presence of the black Impala would signal some sort of welcome. At the diner they'd handed him the usual and he'd found himself on a bench in the quad, slowly finishing two double cheeseburgers and half the double order of curly fries. He ate until it hurt, his stomach bloated and pushing against his buttons, relishing the simple pleasure of feeling something. It fades in the middle of his next class, leaving an even deeper pit behind.

 

He's not even surprised when he gets home to find Gabriel in his kitchen.

"Yello!" Gabriel's voice echoes across the tile, "Nice to see you're not dead."

"What are you doing here, Gabriel?"

 

His brother slides the baking pan back into the oven with ease, jumping back to sweep his arms wide to encompass the whole room, a sun banishing the shadows and revealing the smudged cuffs of Castiel's shirt, his loosened sideways tie, the drooped curve of his shoulders and arc of his head. He's twelve again, his pants ripped rom the boys down the street, covered in dirt and dried blood. Like he did then, Gabriel reaches over and ruffles his hair, saying softly, "It's going to be ok, kid."

 

He doesn't let Castiel say anything until after the timer rings. Gabriel flips the pan onto the largest plate in Castiel's kitchen, a ceramic monstrosity covered in tunic-clad angels and fake gold gilt that had been his housewarming gift when Castiel moved into the apartment. The scent of cinnamon and sugar hit Castiel's nose and his mouth waters despite himself. His fingers dart out to tear a piece off the pile of sugar and dough, the first bite molten--sugar syrup hot enough to burn his fingers on the way to his mouth. Two more bites, then five, are shoved into his mouth before he looks up at his brother and says, "I fucked up."

 

The story pours out of him--his anger from the Gala, the fight, Dean leaving. He stumbles over the explanation of the workshop, realizing he still doesn't know anything about the project that caused this schism. Surprised by the taste of salt, he reaches up to find his cheeks wet.

 

"I always knew you were good at anything you tried, bro. But this takes the cake." Cas lets out a shuddering breath and Gabriel sighs and continues, "It's not all on you, Cas. He fucked up too. Badly.  But man you stuck your foot in it."

Scooting his chair over, Gabriel puts his arm around his brother and draws him close. "Mom and Dad did a number on you, baby bro. Got you so wrapped up in the insecurity and superiority of academia you can't even see it."

Castiel mumbles against his shoulder and Gabriel gives him a squeeze, his voice softening. "Knowing you this happened, what, a week ago? And you've been moping ever since."  He doesn't wait for a reply before continuing. "Not that it excuses his behavior, because that is some bullshit right there. Boy's got a bucket of issues, that's for damn sure. But, I'm going to spell something out for you. One time offer because I'm your favorite brother and I'd really like you to bathe at some point in the near future."

Cas sputters at him, but Gabriel just grips him tighter and says, "He's hurt, he's angry, and he knows you're a little bit right. But Cas?"

"Yes?" His voice is quiet and gravely from disuse and probably too much sugar. He looks up to find his brother gazing at him, as serious as he's ever been, eyes holding something that looks like heartbreak.

 

"He loves you. You're going to fight. You're both too stubborn and opinionated not to. But that doesn't mean you can't make it work. You don't think I've noticed how much you talk about him and what you've been doing?" Gabriel pushes away from Castiel, keeping one hand on his shoulder, gripping Castiel's chin with the other. His voice pitches down and his tone is fierce with pride,  "You've been living outside your work for the first time in fucking ever. You get some of my references now and everything. I'm proud of you, baby bro." The last is punctuated with a shake and a telltale sheen in his eyes. "Go get him and kick his ass."

 


	24. Chapter 24

It's just past one when Sam walks into the workshop to find Dean alone. Everyone had left hours earlier, kicked out by Dean. They'd been nice. Too nice, really. He couldn't deal with Jo's obvious attempts to get a rise out of him or catching Charlie peering sadly over his computer at him. Even Ash, who dealt with most things with a beer in hand, was subdued and coddling, insisting that Dean take first dibs on the radio even though he'd earned it fair and square.  They'd managed to lay out the new pieces from the fabricator on the worktable before he kicked them out, leaving Dean to stare at the pile from his stool. Apart, it looks like blank pages in a coloring book--all blank outline and potential. Like the models lined up on the top of Bobby's workspace, with their imperfect paint jobs and patches of glue faded in the years since two young boys put them together, the parts are more than just their curves and lines. They're the last five years of Dean's life (and most of his bank account). He sat there, just looking at the pieces, painfully aware that the one person he'd like to stand there with isn't likely to ever step foot into the workspace, to see his designs and equations in molded fiberglass, until the air compressor kicks in again, jolting him out of his reverie. Knees creaking, Dean grabs a cloth and leaves his desk.

 

When Sam arrives, he's hunched over the nosepiece, lightly going over the slick material with a file. The rhythmic rasp echoes through the space, a soothing hiss of sound punctuated by the motor of the air compressor and scrape of the stool as he leans back, lifting the piece to the light to check the angle. Neither brother says anything as Sam crosses the space to examine the parts strewn across the worktable. He picks up a backside panel, grunting in surprise at the weight before setting it down and trailing a finger down the curve of one of the front panels. "Counterweight," Dean says, not looking up from where he's not even bothering to sand anymore. "Helps maintain momentum."

 

"Huh," Sam snorts. "Funny."

"What is? Physics?"

"That you mention momentum. Forward movement." Sam cocks a hip and leans against the table, "You know, considering you don't seem to know what that is."

The pretense of sanding forgotten, Dean sets the nose down gingerly before looking up at his brother, "Excuse me?"

"Sometimes known as 'moving on' or 'growing up' or 'getting your shit together'," Sam continues. "A concept I thought you'd grasped."

"Got something to say, Sammy?" Dean growls, resisting the urge to smack the air quotes out of his brother's hands.

"You're an idiot. You're my brother and I love you, but you're an idiot."

 

"Well, not all of us can be braniacs with a degree from Stanford, Sammy." He says with no small degree of bitterness.

"Well, at least I left. I tried, Dean!" Sam shakes his head and sighs. "I'm doing this wrong."

"You're certainly not doing it right, whatever you're trying to do."

"Shut the fuck up, Dean. Seriously. What the hell are you doing?"

"Well, Samantha." Dean drawls, "This is called sandpaper and when someone wants aerodynamics to work in their favor--"

"You know what I mean." Sam's voice is clipped.

 

"I think you don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Really? So, you didn't break up with Cas because you never told him about your hobby? The one you spend thirty hours a week on?"

"Shut up." Dean bites out

"You know, the project you've roped everyone else you know in on, including my boss for legal advice and strategies for talking to lobbyists for green fuel development?" Sam continues.

"Shut up."

"The one that has you doodling equations on diner napkins you hide with your elbow and email with the head of departments at MIT with? Or maybe it's the one that has you sending plans to one of the top mechanical fabricators in the U.S. who gives you a discount in exchange for hearing how your tests go? Or--"

"Shut _up_ ," Dean roars.

 

Impassive, Sam watches his brother's chest heave and mottled pink creep up his neck. Dean's hands convulse around the ruined swatch of sandpaper, small pieces dropping from between his fingers.

Soft and low, as if using the last air left in his lungs, Dean says, "It doesn't matter anyway. He made it pretty clear how he feels about what I do. He's a professor, Sam. And I'm nothing but a mechanic who barely made his GED. This is just how it was always gonna end, so just back the fuck off."

 

He grabs a new sheet of sandpaper from his workbench and leans back over, dismissing his brother in an instant. It's an old trick he used to use when they were kids and Sam would ask when Dad was getting back or what they were having for dinner when he found the cupboard bare. Unlike when he was seven, however, Sam doesn't stomp off to his room or sulk about having Spaghetti-o's _again_ , however much he'd like to head home to his wife and his warm bed. Instead, he steeples his fingers and looks closer at his brother, at the downward hunch of his shoulders, the tight lines of tension around his mouth and eyes. Many people, most of Dean's romantic partners included, have said over the years that his brother is stoic, not given to intense or deep emotion. Maybe it's because they're brothers and grew up fighting over the same four and half feet of back seat, but Sam has always known Dean's anything but emotionless. He's felt anger radiating off of him after shouting matches with their Dad or standing over a bully at one of the many schools they attended, has seen heartbreak bleed off the tips of his fingers where they've held a handle of whiskey, nearly suffocated under the waves of contentment any time his brother is around Castiel.

 

Which is why he's still sitting on a stool when Dean looks up again. It's not the pity or anger Dean expects to see on his face, but lines of sorrow. For a man edging toward thirty he looks remarkably like the twelve year old who was told he couldn't have a puppy, eyes wide and wet and tired. Tightening his jaw, Dean looks back to his work, "Go home, Sammy."

"You know that's bullshit, right?"

"Pretty sure it's the facts, actually."

"Dean, you're the smartest person I know." Sam leans forward, earnest as ever, as if he can beam understanding into his brother's head with his eyeballs. "Seriously. So what if you didn't finish high school the normal way or go to college? You've turned yourself into fucking _Tony Stark_ all on your own, without the benefit of the massive fortune and fancy degree."

"Got the dead dad, though."

Sam barrels through, "This place rivals some of the set ups in actual labs, you know that? And, besides that. You're the best man I know. You're loyal and you love your family and you take care of everyone who comes into your shop. Everyone knows you don't charge half the senior citizens who walk in here. So, stuff the sad sack bullshit. No one cares about that degree bullshit but you."

 

"And Cas." Dean says hollowly.

"Did he say that?"

Dean looks up at Sam, incredulous, "Yeah, Sam. Pretty sure I was there for that part."

"What did he actually say?"

"That I've been 'hiding it in a garage' and that I could do 'much better if I had access to a real lab'." His face twists as he finishes the last air quotes and Sam looks at him thoughtfully.

"Well, couldn't you? I mean, you're always bitching about how much longer things take because you don't have all the correct equipment and have to MacGyver what you have to make it work. And didn't that dude, uh, Steve? Didn't you say the other day that he said he was impressed at how much you've gotten done without whatever the equipment is they have on campus? How's this any different?"

"It just is, Sam."

"How? Because it sounds to me like he said the same thing as Cas and you're using it to push away because you're scared. Which is totally understandable. But dude, come on. Do you really want to give up on the best thing that's ever happened to you?"

 

Dean's hands still and he sighs, but Sam keeps going, "You never ask for anything, Dean. I know what you did for me for Stanford and you stuck around here for Dad and Bobby. The garage and this project? You love it. And, far as I see it, Cas isn't asking for anything other than to be included in that. Would that be so difficult?"

Looking up again, Dean's eyes are wet and lost, so Sam reaches out to grip his arm. "Staying with Jess was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. I worried about her meeting Dad and what she'd think about the town I grew up in and what if she thought I was just some hick. We had a huge fight about it, actually. Didn't talk for almost three weeks."

 

He swallows roughly before clearing his throat, "You know what she said? She said she loved _me_. Not what I was studying, or my family. She loved who I was with her and who I was to our friends and in our volunteer work. She said that we're more than where we come from and what we do--it's how we do it and who we choose to do it with. Cas doesn't care what you do, Dean. Take it from me, I've seen the way he looks at you. It's kinda gross."

"How'd you do it?" Dean asks, voice low and gravely.

"Which day?" Sam snorts. " Most days I thank the universe she puts up with me. Part of me will always be terrified that one day when I get home from work she'll just be gone. But we're not Dad, Dean. And neither are they." He tightens his grip on his brother's arm and leans in, "You're a better man than he ever was." Pulling his brother into a quick hug, he holds him tight for a second before heading across the room, yelling over his shoulder, "Don't be an idiot about this for too long."

 

He hits the lights on his way out, plunging the room into darkness except for the lone bank of lights over the table, setting the parts into sharp relief against the edging night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brothers, amirite


	25. Chapter 25

"No. I can't take this any more. Go home." Balthazar slams his hands down on the top of Cas's desk, hard enough to send a pen cap skittering off the edge.

Blinking behind his glasses, Cas peers back at his friend. "I'm sorry?"

 

"Yes, you are. Staying here late, getting here early. You my friend are a sorry, sad sack. And it is painful--actually painful--to see you like this. So, your boy is an idiot. Everyone bloody knew that. I wasted a muffin--my fresh muffin, mind you, the one Charlene pulls from the oven for me--on you and not even so much as a smile or a 'thank you'. I won't stand for it."  Picking up the book nearest to his hand, he stalks over to where Cas's bag is strewn and starts shoving the papers back inside. "As your superior in this office, I'm sending you home."

 

"You can't do that," Cas sputters, attempting to pull books out of his friend's hand.

"Oh, I can. And I am. Go home." He shoves Cas's bag into his chest and all but pushes him out the door. "Open that bottle of barley wine if you must, but I don't want to see you until you're painfully hungover or it's fixed."

"I still don't see why I'm the one who has to fix anything," Cas grumbles as he lets himself be led down the hall.

"Because your boy could find water on Mars before he could find words on his own. Make him work for it, but I'm afraid you'll have to give him the opportunity to grovel." With a bang he heaves the heavy wooden door open and gestures into the sunlight. "Godspeed."

#

 

On the way to his car, more than a few undergrads skitter out of Castiel's path. for the next few days undergrads in the language department will speculate on what sent Professor Novak hauling down the lawn, muttering to himself, placing bets on it like rent had the source of his funk the past week or so. So intense is the speculation, even the professors for in on it, having  their graduate students put down for them and passing on gossip from the upper echelons. Balthazar himself placed $50 on "broken heart", "finally cracked" and "career breakthrough" just to throw them off the scent. 

 

It's not like Castiel hadn't already planned to confront Dean this week. After his conversation with Gabriel he'd sat down and come up with a detailed plan. He'd written down his points and listed possible rebuttals and had run through them a handful of times. Ok, so the plan ended up more like a script of six possible ways the conversation could happen, except for the part where he could never figure out where to go after apologizing.  The original plan was to speak to Dean on Tuesday, but then he got wrapped up in grading, so Thursday would work better. But then his next-door neighbor came by to borrow some sugar and after that he'd had to make a grocery store run. The week had been busier than planned and he just hadn't gotten to it yet. He's not stalling, no matter what his brother and Balthazar think--he's been evaluaring his resources and waiting for an opportune time.

 

Ok, so he's stalling. Groaning, he rests his forehead on the steering wheel of the car that got him into the whole mess to begin with. He knows when he opens his eyes he'll see the crumpled food wrappers and forgotten class notes he's let fester for the past few weeks, taunting him and his increased grease intake and the fact that each meal has been for one. The clock on his phone flashes 7:30 and he knows what he needs to do.

#

 

The bag in his hand feels heavier than normal, but it could be the extra order of onion rings Doris had thrown in when she realized he was picking up their old order. "I'm glad to see you two are patching things up. Such good-looking boys. You know, my Elmer once was out for three weeks before he came back with a sub from Mo's that used to be down the way. Food gets you in the door, hon. I slipped you some extra good luck,” she’d said before waving him off, chuckling at the way his ears had burned.

 

The doorbell feels odd under his fingertips, his keys burning in his pocket, but he wants to do this right. He needs to show that he respects Dean's space--even if it's one they've shared so well. The heavy thud of footsteps from inside sends Cas's heart into a panic, his breath quickening slightly. He's grateful for the bag that keeps his hand steady, shoving the other into his pocket.

 

Surprise is the first thing he sees on Dean's face, before it's replaced with a series of other emotions and then flattens out into a careful blank mask. "Hey," he says gruffly.

"Hey," Cas replies. "Can I come in?"

 

Dean turns, leaving the door open behind him as he heads into the front room. Gently, Cas shuts the door, letting his fingers linger over the doorknob, before removing his shoes and following Dean. The other man is seated on the armchair, a glass of water on a coaster in front of him. Fidgeting in the doorway, Cas lifts the bag in greeting, "I brought burgers."

 

He takes the seat on the far end of the couch, far enough away from Dean to be polite, but directly in line of sight. He unpacks the bag, separating the food into two piles: a burger and fries each, with an extra burger for Dean on top of the golden onion rings. Dean raises an eyebrow at the small mountain of food Cas pushes his way, taking it without a word. They eat in silence, the sounds of tearing wrappers and chewing soothing in their own way. Dean snorts when Cas tries to fold his burger wrapper, smoothing the edges down and it's enough to make Cas's chest ache. The onion rings are opened last and after taking one, Dean nudges the container to the center, looking up at Cas through his lashes. He takes one and tells himself the way Dean smiles, small and hidden, doesn't have anything to do with him, but everything to do with Doris's secret batter recipe. Once the last crumbs are swept away, there's nothing between them but the silence. Cas looks up at Dean to find his eyes keep skittering away to focus on the edge of the mantle, the curve of the lamp, anywhere but where Dean's leg bounces and his eyes wait, hooded.

 

Taking a deep breath he screws his eyes shut and says, "I'm sorry."

He hears Dean's leg still, the soft tap of the heels on his boots gone dead silent and he pushes on, "For most of what I said and how I said it. I never meant--I didn't--." He opens his eyes to see Dean staring at him with disbelieving eyes.  He swallows, "You are the best thing to ever happen to me. You're the best person I know and I--." He stumbles, his tongue thick,  "I want to know what you do. I want to know _you_. I doesn't matter to me if you're a mechanic or the President or if you do your work in a cave or at JPL --I just want to know you. All of you. Anything else just isn't fair. To either of us."

 

Dean's lips are pressed tight together, a thin line across his face as Cas continues, "I haven't been the best at it either and I need to. And I'm sorry that what I said hurt you. I never meant to make you feel badly about your work. It just hurt to be shut out."

"Me too." It comes softly from across the room, no less sincere for the lack of volume. "I fucked it up Cas. I wanted to tell you, God I did, I swear. But then I didn't and then I kept not saying anything and I figured it would just get worse. And then it did. At least you had an excuse for your family. This is just some stupid car."

"Hey," Cas says sharply. "That is not some 'stupid car'. That is a marvel of engineering."

Shocked by his tone, Dean snaps his focus back to Cas. His face is deeply furrowed and Dean can't help but laugh because this is so stupid.

 

"This is stupid," he says.  Moving quickly, he joins Cas on the couch sitting close enough to press their knees together. "I'm fucked up, Cas. No good at any of this stuff," he waves his hand around to encompass the room, but mostly them and everything they're not actually saying. He takes a deep breath,  "But I want to be."

"Me too," Cas says, reaching over to take one of Dean's hand in his own. "My family is difficult. You're going to wish you never knew anything about them."

"Eh," Dean shrugs, pressing more snugly against Cas's side. "They're part of you. Worth it."

He plays with Cas's fingers for a few moments and Cas is content to let him, tension seeping out of his body with each point of contact. "Though," Dean continues, "you're kind of a dick."

 

"Excuse me?" Cas leans back to look at Dean, take in his wide grin.

"I was gonna do it tomorrow. Had a big plan and everything. Just had to show me up, didn't you, Professor?"

"Well,” Cas drawls, "I believe it was Aristotle who said--."

"Oh, hell no," Dean says, covering Cas's lips with his own. It's a gentle kiss for how violent their fight was, how miserable the past few weeks have been, as if any stronger pressure would shatter the moment, send them back to their empty beds and hollow chests. Their mouths open on shallow breaths, pressing closer together, shifting their bodies so that Dean is above him, hair dusted with streetlight.  Later they'll argue who broke first, murmuring soft words and apologies against lips and skin; who led them up the stairs and stripped them of clothes; who splayed who across the sheets and cried his name brokenly. But for the moment theyre both there and that's enough.


	26. Epilogue

Moonlight slants across the precarious stacks of boxes pushed towards the side of the room as Dean creeps in. Catching his toe on the edge of a box, he swears under his breath but doesn't go down. He shuffles forward and catches his duffel on _something_ on top of another shorter stack of boxes, managing to catch it before it hits the ground, but not before he hears the shifting movement of the sleeping occupant of the room. He sighs and drops the bag in defeat--so much for stealth. He scoots past a last box with clothes cascading out of it to sit on the edge of the bed as Castiel raises his head from his ridiculous pile of pillows and croaks, "Dean?"

 

"Hey, babe," Dean says, reaching out to run a hand over Castiel's mussed hair.

"You're back early." Cas peers up at him through half-lidded eyes, still burrowed under the comforter, while Dean continues to run his hand through his hair.

 

"We wrapped up quick." He rubs a thumb over Castiel's cheekbone before turning to take off his shirt. The other man hums, snuggling back down into his pillows as Dean quickly strips. He nearly trips over his own duffle on his way back to the other side of the bed before he slides between the sheets, rolling over so he can tuck himself against Castiel's back. Castiel hisses as Dean's hands slide over his stomach, his skin still cool from blasting the a/c for the last ten miles to stay awake enough to make it home.  Slowly, Castiel relaxes back into him again and Dean sighs happily, burying his nose into Castiel's neck.

 

The other man makes a small sound deep in his chest before saying, "Your turn to unpack tomorrow."

The displeased sound from Dean's throat matches his whine, "Too many boxes. We have way too much shit for two dudes."

"You like our shit." Cas says sleepily, the words starting to slur.

" _You_ like our shit." Dean's pretty sure he says that aloud, but in the next breath slips into sleep.

#

 

He wakes to too much sunlight and the bed cold next to him. Without opening his eyes, he gropes around for his phone, cracking his eyelids slightly to check the time. He'd rolled in slightly after three and anything before nine is fired. 8:46, the clock blips at him. The pillows are soft against his face as he buries his head in them, inhaling the comforting scent of home and Cas and the hippie no-additive detergent he insists on using. It's nicer on his skin, but Dean would rather eat spinach for a week than admit it. His stubble catches on the fabric and he groans into the pillow before dragging himself out of bed. The shirt he grabs isn't his, but he barely notices as he pulls it on and walks down the hallway. Both of the other rooms on this floor are scattered with boxes and random pieces of furniture left to stand awkwardly in a sea of hardwood, flanked by unpainted walls. There's noise coming from the kitchen downstairs, so he heads straight down.

 

He's barely through the doorway before a cup of hot coffee is pressed into his hands and he's herded into one of the chairs at the table. Cas sits down across from him, his eyes bright despite the thick stubble across his face. The sleeves of his robe pool at his elbows as he leans forward to take a sip of coffee, humming with pleasure as the too-sweet liquid hits his tongue. Dean takes a pull of his own, bitter, but milky and savors the warmth sliding down his throat. His foot bumps one of Cas's under the table and he smiles into his mug as Cas just hooks a foot around his ankle, his sock fuzzy and warm. Absently, Cas scratches at acrossword and Dean lets his eyes drop shut for a moment. He drinks his coffee slowly, the last few sips lukewarm at best by the time he gets to them. By thenbCas has wandered away again, rummaging in the pantry for something and the sun has risen enough to spread its fingers across the room, lighting up the patches of tobacco smoke stains and faded yellow paint that creep up the side of the wall. Snagging Cas's cup as he crosses the room, he fills the mugs again, grimacing as he adds multiple spoonfuls of sugar to his boyfriend's. A carton of Fig Newtons sits on the table when he gets back, Cas nibbling away at the edges of his before attacking the middle.

 

"Breakfast of champions," Dean says, shoving a cookie into his mouth.

"That is what happens when the culinary part of the household leaves for over a week, Chief," Cas grins at him around the edges of another cookie.

"That's Mr. Crew Chief to you."

Tipping back in his chair, Cas grins. "Ah, right. Apologies."

"Accepted."

 

They grin at each other and the last of the tension from the past week eases out of Dean's shoulders. It had been something out of a dream over a year ago when Steve had come by the shop and laid out his proposal. He wanted Dean to come with him to the EcoMarathon, just to check it out. There wasn't any reason to say no, so Dean had gone. After a few days of talking shop, he realized more and more people were coming up to him to talk about the work his crew had going in the back of the shop.  By the end of the week he'd been approached by the heads of Engineering departments and labs alike, and both he and Steve had been taken aside by a major donor with a soft offer for a potential partnership. A few weeks later Steve called Dean to let him know an anonymous donor had just given the Engineering school a bucket of cash earmarked for "practical studies" and an EcoMarathon team. Though Dean wasn't mentioned by name in the official offer, the donor apparently had dropped some heavy suggestions about him. Only Cas knew how his grip cracked the glass he'd been holding when he got the call.

 

After an exhausting few months appealing to the board and the donor via a proxy, Dean was offered an adjunct position with small grant as well as a lab in the department. But in the end, even the Provost eagerly supported the project.  In return for the campus setup, Dean hosts a sophomore seminar at the garage for students to get some practical experience with the theories they're learning in class and serves as the head coach to the EcoMarathon team.  Sure, having a bunch of kids underfoot is rough on the busy days, but it means Dean and the rest of the crew spend a lot less time under dripping oil pans and the kids bring an energy to the garage that makes the days when they aren't there just that much quieter.

 

And now Dean is back from a week in Houston, coaching his kids through their first showing at the EcoMarathon. This after his first co-authored article appeared in _Nano Materials_ just a few months ago to some great praise. Some mornings he has to pinch himself to make sure it's real. Especially now that he gets to wake up with Cas--how could he be so lucky?

 

"Top five is a good showing," Cas ventures and Dean laughs.

 

"Top five is fucking great. You should've seen the faces on the coach from Leval when our scores rolled in. Fucking beautiful." And it had been. Their first year out in the prototype category for internal combustion engines and they'd beat Laval's previous record breaking score by twenty-two miles per gallon, clocking in at 2846 mpg. He'd thrown his fist in the air and crowed with the rest of them and Erica, their hard-edged team captain, had broken into tears. Of course, Laval took the title again, beating their old score by an exponential margin, but damn it felt good to have them and CalPoly and Mater Dei look at them like they were a threat.  "Give us a few more years and we'll be able to crush them."

"Can't wait to see it."

#

 

The problem with change is that it all seems to happen at once. Last year it had been Steve's offer and the anonymous donor followed by Cas moving into Dean's place when his lease was up. It only made sense. They stuck Cas's books where they could and set up a desk for his work in the corner of the living room. At the end it felt a bit like a cavernous library that happened to house a TV and an obscenely comfortable couch, but it worked. Once the funding was approved for the Fall and classes kicked in, their lives were a whirlwind. There were too many nights where Dean buried his face in Cas's shirt, trying to breathe as Cas stroked his hair and assured him that he's not a failure or a fake and it doesn't matter that he doesn't have anything past an Associate's degree because who the hell cares anyway other than that asshole Carter in Materials. But there were almost as many spent wedged together on the couch grading papers or catching up on the latest David Attenborough documentaries with Charlie and Jo and the rest of the crew. By virtue of their connection with Dean, the others also became fixtures in the Engineering department, hosting guest lectures and unofficial tutoring sessions in the lab. Ash quickly became a favorite with the robotics kids, though he tended to duck out when they got too intense and show up hours later asleep in the supply room.

 

Fall break offered a reprieve from their crazy schedule and saw Cas pulling his hard drive out from his drawer and sitting down with it for the first time in a long while. By the end of break he had a workable first draft of one of the pieces and a list of monographs to read to catch up on the most recent scholarship. By the beginning of the year he's under contract with a prestigious academic publishing house, refusing to talk about the details to anyone but Dean. Most days he still can't believe he can have any of this. On the worst days, Dean calls Balthazar to take him to lunch and feed him a giant salad and affection clothed in sharp words. A section of one of the anonymous reviews gets tacked above his desk: " _I have no doubt that Dr. Novak's translations will be new classics. He translates with a deep knowledge of not only the subject, but also of de Montaigne's voice. The result is an engaging, nuanced text that brings new life to the work of a highly influential scholar and statesman_."

#

 

It's on their way back from Sam and Jess's after ringing in the New Year that they see the sign in front of a house towards the center of a quiet block. "For Sale By Owner" the sign says as it sways slightly, a phone number scrawled across the bottom edge. They pull over and look at it in the afternoon sun. It's seen better days--the paint faded, the lawn brown and overgrown. "Good bones," is all Dean says. They get back in the car and drive home.

 

A few weeks later Cas shoves back from where he's working at his desk and drops into Dean's lap where he's watching Jeopardy and muttering insults when the contestants get wrong answers. "I want to see it," he says. Holding Cas steady, Dean grabs his wallet off the table and wordlessly hands Cas the piece of paper with the phone number jotted down. He doesn't bother to get off Dean's lap, but pulls out his phone and calls right there. They see the house the next day.

 

Molly and Dave are in their 80's and feel the lure of the desert and the lack of income tax. She offers them cookies when they walk through the door and points out the original stained glass in the transom above their heads. They wander through the study, front room and the kitchen with the adjoining formal dining room where they find Dave stabbing at a well-done steak. "Don't mind him," Molly says. "He likes his dinner right on time. He'll follow when he's ready." He grunts as they leave, and Cas and Dean take that and as invitation to take the stairs slowly, letting their fingers trail over the edges of the handrail. A few stairs are loose, but they're solid wood and in good shape, if in sad need of refinishing. The carpet in the two bedrooms is horrific, thick and deep and avocado green and burnt orange. But the bathroom at the end of the hall is clean and simple and the master suite is big, if dated and covered in flounces.

 

Out back there's a small garden that's mostly been left to its own devices, but still grows in smart lines that belie a history of care. Dave joins them there, handing them each a beer before showing them the patio he and his son had laid years ago in a smart brick design. Their son is Burnt Orange and now lives with his family in Phoenix. Avocado Green is in Boston with her kids, but visits when she can. Where the fence gapes from age they can see an aboveground pool waiting for summer and a trampoline in need of sweeping. Cas slips his hand into Dean's and he knows. Through the brick beneath his feet he can feel the roots start to grow, tangling the two of them together to this space and the phantom children he can see ghosting around the edges of the yard. They go home and Dean kisses the _please_ off Cas's lips with a simple _yes_.

 

To say that Molly and Dave were delighted would be doing their joy a disservice. A week before closing she has them over for dinner, talking their ears off about the way the house sounds when it settles and how she's so pleased that it will have "such nice boys" to take care of. After dinner, Dave joins them in the front room to offer their pick of the furniture in the house. Whatever is left will go to Burnt Orange in Phoenix, whose ultra modern house won't fit any of their sturdy wood, no matter his insistence that he'll make it work. Dean hesitates, but Cas asks him to take them through the pieces--the hutch from a great aunt, a radiator cover by a young man down the street for his final shop project, the dressers and tables hand-hewn by ancestors. They pick a few--the farm table in the dining room, the hutch and the radiator cover of course, but also some bookcases and the desk in the study that looks like it grew up from the hardwood floors. Satisfied, Dave claps them both on the shoulder and heads upstairs, leaving Molly to hug them goodbye.

 

Two weeks later, they start ripping walls down with some friend of Gabe's, Andy, who happens to be a contractor. They open the bottom floor up, incorporating the formal dining room with the kitchen and refinish the floors. Upstairs they tear up carpet and forty years worth of dust to find perfectly preserved hardwood underneath. Between those and the stairs, which need more work then they'd thought, and having to re-do the entire electrical system, their renovation budget is gone before they can start on their own bedroom or painting the walls or updating the appliances. Standing in their open kitchen, Dean sags against Cas who presses a kiss to his temple. "We have time."

 

The mortgage might tie them to the house for twenty years, but the following weeks go by in a blur thanks to midterms and supply issues for the lab and then the team trip. Dean alternates shoving clothes into his suitcase and into boxes in the week running up to the event. He's driving to Houston with a few of the kids and the car trailer which means he's gone for extra time on both ends of the event. Between late nights in the garage tweaking the engine and the body of the car with the kids and packing their lives into boxes, Dean barely gets in his four hours every night. " 'm too old for this shit," he mumbles into Cas's shoulder the morning he's set to head to Houston.

 

"Let's never do this again," Cas agrees.

"Deal."

#

 

Once the last of the boxes are folded up and banished to the garage, they have a party. Well, first they take a nap on the couch and then christen the front room with very lazy and _very_ loud sex, all the sweeter because Benny's not on the other side of the wall to yell at them. They clean up and then have sex in Cas's office/study and then once more in the upstairs hallway while arguing over who gets to use the shower first. (They take one together.)

 

Charlie screams the first time she walks in the door, handing off the beer to a startled Jo and stalking into the kitchen before planting herself in front of the entertainment system. She taps her lips with a finger, "We can work with this. Also, have you _seen that chill space_? LAN parties, bitches!"

"No." Dean says and bundles Jo into the kitchen to put the beer away.

 

Sam and Jess arrive soon after, followed by Bobby and Ellen. Though he's the only one to have seen the place before now, Sam still stares transfixed at the details in the woodwork around the edges of the rooms. Bobby drags him out back to get a fire started in the fire pit, even though it's only late May. The smell of wet ground and the sharp crackle of fire draws everyone out of the house where they stay until the moon is high in the sky and the fire has burnt to embers.  They peel off in pairs just as they came, until the house is empty again and Dean and Cas are left to drag themselves upstairs, leaning on each other. Pulling off their clothes, they tumble into bed, rolling into each other. It's effortless, how they slot their limbs together. Tonight Dean pulls Cas into his chest, resting his cheek on the top of his head. Cas sighs, relaxing into his hold and mumbles against Dean's throat. He drops off to sleep soon after, puffing warm breaths against his skin. Dean's eyes flit across the room, from their pair of dressers (his strewn with spare change and stuff from his pockets, Cas's nearly bare except for his father's clock), to the cracked door of their closet where their shirts mingle, to the top drawer of his nightstand where a small box with a worn silver band is tucked behind a Costco -sized box of condoms. He tugs Cas closer. "Welcome home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting, sharing, bookmarking--everything. You lot are the best.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been quite the journey. It started as part of the ill-fated DeanCas Exchange, tried to be a DCBB, and then evolved into this thing. So many of you have been supportive and inspirational, poking me when I've lost steam, joining me on 1k1hr sprints, hashing out details that will never make it into the damn thing but inform some decisions---seriously thank you. I couldn't have done this without you. I have to thank ceeainthereforthat who has been one of the best writing friends I could have asked for. Endless debates about motivation and pacing, passing along exercises and being both an alpha and a beta reader. You are gracious and wonderful and I'm so glad to know you and have you on my team. Grumpyfeathers, hamburgergod, drownedinblissfulconfusion--you are the best cheerleaders and betas anyone could ask for. 
> 
> And then the rest of the usual suspects from Team Bunk Rock, who have been here through the whole thing. You're the best.
> 
> This is the longest story I've ever written and it's been a ride. Thank you for coming with me.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at inthebackoftheimpala


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